


Undertow

by dance_tilyouredead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Badass Clarke, Comfort, Drunk Lexa, F/F, Farm Nerd Lexa, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Post Season 2, Undertow by Warpaint, ive been told its a, joyful punch, slowburn, slowburn romance, they both say fuck a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_tilyouredead/pseuds/dance_tilyouredead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Mount Weather, Clarke is still missing and all that Lexa thinks about. Clarke arrives in Polis with a knife pointed at Lexa's heart.<br/>*<br/>No matter the distortions of her myth, the stories were true when they described her eyes. Cold and hard. </p><p>’No one bothered to pat me down before they brought me in here.’ Clarke’s voice is hoarse as though she hasn't used it in a long time.</p><p>'Should I be worried?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I wanted to stay home_  
_But I went running from the troubles_

 

 

There’s a fair in the centre of Polis. Vines and greenery have been trained to soften your city's edges, to celebrate life in the most beautiful way. Lanterns and fires cast flickering light against the circle of brick buildings, shadow and light flowing through natural and man-made to create magical scenes. People from all over the city and beyond stream through the cobbled streets to join in music and life in every corner. 

As Polis celebrates the anniversary of your people's return, and the fall of Mount Weather, all you can think of is her. Her eyes and her smile that was so rarely given. She's not been seen or heard of since she left the Ark and you think she's likely dead. Your people speak of her in hushed voices, rarely saying her name, using one of her many epithets instead; Skai Prisa, Brave One, Heda kom Skaigeda, Earth Star, Destroyer. Disappeared. The more time that passes the less human Clarke becomes.

In the midst of celebration you drink to forget. With alcohol in your veins and memories in your heart you dance with a girl whose hair is not quite fair enough, her eyes the wrong shade of blue. When you fall into bed with her you don't let her touch you but don't think she minds as you sink into giving her pleasure. You give all you have to her and to others just like her so you won't need to think about your self, your wants, heartbreaks. You revel in the physical of skin on skin but don't take your part of it.

When the girl gasps and collapses for the second time and she sleeps, you leave. You walk out of your home, past the brick buildings, past the shacks and tents on the city's fringes and continue into the wild. You scale cliff faces, trees and broken old buildings, anything to get high from the ground, to stare at the stars. 

//

One year and six days since the mountain you hear a whisper. A girl has been sighted wandering alone in wasteland fringes to the north-west. A few days after, a Trigeda family on their way to Polis is saved from bandits by a wild girl with a gun. Whether or not she fired her weapon is unclear. Consistent in each telling though is the cold hard gaze of the saviour. ’Her hair was sunshine,’ they say. 'But her eyes are cold and desolate as glaciers.’ 

You ignore the rumours. At least you do your best to appear to ignore them. You needn't care if she lives or dies. Your alliance with the sky people is a neutral one, sufficient for survival. At best Clarke may return as a leader of her people in peace. At worst, well. At worst Clarke has proven herself capable of genocide. But. The alliance holds. And Clarke has shown a preference for diplomacy over violence. And you aren’t a warrior right now. You work among your people in the fields and orchards, wherever the seasons crops need hands the most. Sometimes you’re exhausted enough to sleep without dreams, and without thinking of her until morning. 

One year and one month since Clarke disappeared you’re out in the fields for harvest. Living among your people you do what is expected of you and sometimes more since there's little enough for you to do in a time of peace. The sun is warm on your shoulders where the broad hat you wear doesn't shade. The soil is damp and rich under your hands. No one here looks at you like you're a hero or a monster. You dress as they do, no need for sword or armour. 

You stand up, stretch out your back and wipe sweat away from your brow. You enjoy the ache of hard labor as you shift your basket down the plant row. Your basket’s already half full of onions and you’re glad this year will be a substantial harvest; the people deserve some richness in their lives.

Your thought drift as you work imagining a life of permanent peace. Without constant war the people could have leaders with no skill for battle. The commander’s spirit mightn’t be needed ever again. It’s true you could make yourself useful in peacetime but there are others who equal your talent for words and diplomacy. You could spend your time in these fields, spend your days as you choose instead of as you are needed.

 

The sun stretches lower on the horizon and you tilt your hat back to protect your neck. A shadow is approaching your plant row. "Heda." Many of the workers stand up to watch Indra approach you, tipping back their hats to see her more clearly. "Heda, you are needed."

You allow yourself a sigh. "These onions won't harvest themselves."

Indra looks down into your basket. "Heda?"

You dust off your hands and feel the freedom of these last months fall away with the soil. "What is it?"

Indra hesitates. The first time you have seen her pause in over a year. 

Clarke. You remember those blue eyes and the shape of her lips. "She is alive?" You admit your hope aloud.  You remember when Clarke spoke to you of weakness and fear; you consider going back to your plant-row. A field of onions is not nearly so damaging to your self control as the Skai Prisa. 

"She is here." 

You think of a dark mountain side and repeating the words _May we meet again_. "Octavia?" She was so insistent that Clarke was alive. 

Your General doesn't need any clarification. "She is on the coast for water training."

"A days ride," you give yourself another moment to think.

"Should I send for her to return early?" Indra asks, turning to do so.

"No." You know that they care for one another, even if they last spoke in bitter terms. Besides, "Octavia will return by weeks end. If Clarke wishes to stay in Polis, then she will. Octavia’s presence will change nothing."

Indra turns back to you. "Then you will attend to Skai Prisa alone?"

"Will I?" you ask. You just want to finish the row and fill your basket. 

You know as well as Indra that anything she might say now would be subordinate. So Indra says nothing and you walk to the edge of the field with her, the basket resting on the curve of your hip. You empty your harvest into the larger baskets and empty yourself of any day-dream simplicity with it. Whatever had hidden your cage for this short time evaporates. You are not your own person today or any other day. 

//

You don't bother to change before returning to your home and entering the room kept for emissaries. Why Indra left her here isn't clear. The room holds a library of books from before the bombs and scrolls from more recent times. The chairs are plush, the bookshelves and tables finely finished. It is meant to be impressive.

Clarke stands dusty, stern and on edge in the midst of it all, and the room feels more out of place in your home than she does.

Clarke doesn't acknowledge your entrance but you can see her eyes find you in the reflection of the window. There’s a pack at her feet with a bed-roll and blackened pot hanging in from it. You close the door behind you and she remains still and staring out onto the street below.

You don’t mind, taking the chance to examine her; she’s covered neck to knee in layers of cloth with thick soled boots on her feet. The travel dust is so thick on her clothes you're not sure what colour anything is underneath. She’s shaved off her hair on one side to the scalp and what’s left on the other is long and matted, held back by strands from the front and fastened to the back. 

You think maybe she does belong in this room after all and wonder which clan she could represent if not her Sky People. The dust makes you think of desert nomads, the wastelands and all those searching for the City of Light. You wonder if maybe rather than the nomads Clarke joined a band of thieves – the ones who prey on lost souls searching for that glittering myth of a city. She has a way with manipulation after all, and you know she's not fool enough to be among those idiots stripped of their possessions and left for dead in the dust.

You clear your throat somewhat lost for words and she turns to look at you. No matter the distortions of her myth, the stories were true when they described her eyes. Cold and hard, the truth makes something tighten in your gut. 

"No one bothered to pat me down before they brought me in." Clarke’s voice is hoarse as though she hasn't used it in a long time.

"Should I be worried?" You ask.

She looks you over, reaching your mud-caked boots and returning to the wide straw hat still on your head. You blush at the look she gives you because the Destroyer is armed and you are a lone farm girl with nothing in her hands but dirt.

"Then I should disarm you." You stand up straighter. "And reprimand my guards."

She doesn't say anything but you think she might be afraid and you wonder who she’s more afraid for. Clarke raises her hands behind her head and turns to face the wall. You pull the ridiculous hat from your head and the shawl from around your shoulders unsure if appearing as a half-dressed farm girl with naked arms and waist is any better than fully dressed worker. You decide it doesn't matter and drop the clothes on the table beside you. Clarke knows as well as anyone what you're capable of.

You stand behind her and bring up your hands to her wrists. She still wears her father’s watch. Her arms and shoulders are clear but running you hands down her back you find the gun tucked into her belt. Around her hips you find two knives and you focus on being thorough, moving your fingers in under her shirt and up her sides. Her muscles twitch under your hands but you keep searching and find a small, well concealed blade at her ribs. 

She turns around, her face impassive as you unsheathe her knife to examine the blade. It is sharp and polished and you pocket the knife instead of dropping it with the others on the table. Without meeting her eyes you continue to search down the outside of her legs. The belt of throwing knives from her thigh and another two knives from her boots join the rest. 

Clarke hasn't flinched once but as you move to the inside of her legs her posture goes rigid. She’s uncomfortable with your hands moving higher but with so many weapons already on the table you have to check. You’re impersonal in your movements and you don’t linger but you still feel the tremor in her muscles and the intake of breath as your hands drag up her thighs and back over her hips.

"Happy now?" she asks as you step back. There’s no humour in her eyes as she laughs. 

"Why are you here, Clarke?" You wrap up the knives and her gun in your shawl focusing on your task so you won’t need to look at her. Looking at her is like staring into the heart of a bonfire.

"I don’t know." Her voice is small enough to draw your attention. Something like life flickers in her eyes for the first time. Something like pain.

"Where have you been?" You feel the plea in your voice but can’t take it back.

Clarke looks away and back toward the window where the city is busy with life.

You have to ask. "Did you come here to kill me?"

The knife on Clarke’s ribs could have been missed, would be enough to slit your throat. Clarke doesn’t say anything and that’s answer enough.

"Stay," you tell her anyway, just shy of begging.

Clarke sees through you as she always has. The life in her eyes flickers then dims. "Okay." You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to stay but you don’t want to give her any reason to go.

//

You let her choose from the many empty rooms in your house and she picks the one opposite yours. She gazes around the space and moves to sit on the bed, dropping her pack to the floor. Since she didn’t close the door behind her you follow inside and lean on the bedpost looking out past the balcony instead of at her. You can feel her eyes on your back.

"If you need something, please let me know." You think she won’t ask for anything but she does.

"Food will be good. And a bath." You resist the urge to turn around and instead point out the window.

"Follow down that street and you’ll run right into the markets. They use currency there which I can give you, or there is a cashier if you have something of value on you."

"I have coin."

Of course. You had mistaken her for your Clarke from a year ago.

"There is running water through that door" You nod toward the joining bathroom. "You know how a faucet works?"

It might be safe to assume she does know, but you turn to check anyway. She is looking right at you. You can see she hates you and that cuts more deeply than any blade.

//

There’s a tavern you visit on warm night when you know you won’t be sleeping. The barmen charges you too much and you don’t mind because you prefer a little disrespect sometimes. You like that he doesn’t fear you, the same way you like that there’s still dirt under your fingernails when you accept the drink and hand over your money. 

You drink to forget and don’t slow down until edges get blurry. There’s a girl leaning into your side, one you’ve smiled at before and she’s sharing your drinks. She calls you commander and you remind her that she’s not a warrior. She laughs and you pretend to care that she finds you funny. You find humour in language and tricky phrases, and regret that Clarke won’t understand that about you. Your english is not that good and her Trigeda is awful. You laugh aloud in remembering her and the girl you’re with thinks you’re laughing with her, that you’re thinking about her.

You stumble home with the girl on your arm and Clarke in your thoughts. You whisper filthy things that you have no words for in English. You’re not gentle and she doesn’t mind, she pulls you through shadows to your home and you don’t wonder how she knows where it is. 

You guide her into your room and press her against the doorframe. She tries to kiss you again but you’re done with her lips, your attention on her neck, hands on her back and in her hair.

Before you can close the door you see Clarke standing in her own doorway across the hall and looking at you both. You don’t stop nibbling at the girl’s neck, you don’t stop slipping your hands under her top and grasping at her breasts. You stare at Clarke who stares right back and you whisper the dirtiest things you know in any language into the girl’s ear. She moans and you squeeze her and press your thigh up. When the girl tries to touch you, her fingers at the top of your pants you grab her hand and lean back to meet her eyes. _No_ you shake your head and she smiles.

When you look back over her shoulder Clarke is gone.

//

You leave the girl asleep and slip into the hall. Clarke’s door is still closed with no light slipping under it. You’re still drunk but not enough to make you knock on her door so you leave. You stumble through alleys and darkness until you’re surrounded by trees, you look up at the stars and long to get closer but know a climb right now could kill you.

 

"You’re an idiot."

You spin around at the voice and then promptly fall over, your hand scraping over a rock as you tumble. Clarke shakes her head as she sits on a boulder a few meters away from you. 

"And why oh Star Child, am I an idiot?" Your words are slurred but clear enough.

Clarke’s eyes narrow at your name for her. "You’re fucking random girls so you don’t have to feel anything real." She snaps her mouth shut like that wasn’t what she’d meant to say. "You run off into the woods with no weapons and no guard, too drunk to know if someone is following you."

Funny. Clarke is funny. She’s also not wearing very much.

 _"Fucking_ is such a wonderful word," you say. "It’s one we lost, you know until you all fell down and started throwing it around. And you use it in such." You struggle to find the word. "Versatile ways. Fuck!" Your voice gets louder. "Fuck the fuckers. That’s still correct, yes?"

Clarke nods.

"And this way that you said it now. _Fucking_ random girls." You mimic her emphasis. "You mean to hurt me by using this word. It’s more guttural and holds more power than the correct term." Clarke still says nothing and you’re caught in your musings now, more prone to talking while drunk. "How do you know that I _fucked_ her?"

Clarke startles at the direct question then laughs her humourless – soulless laugh. "Do you always pick screamers?"

"Screamers?" you repeat.

Liking the taste of the word you concede her point. Rising on unsteady legs, you dust the dirt off your backside and approach her. She’s wearing as little as you are and you can see the cold affecting her.

"No I don’t. But I do understand your meaning. Now, tell me. Are you a screamer, Clarke?"

She swings her fist into your face so quick you have no chance to even turn away. The force knocks you on your back again and by the time you recover your breath she's gone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings. Especially about Indra.

_Nobody ever has to find out_  
_what's in my mind tonight_

 

 

You dream of Clarke hanging pale and drained in the mountain. Her skin is ice cold and frosted white except for the places showing bloody bone cut open and exposed. You cut her down and lay her gently on the ground. As you brush the matted hair from her face her eyes open. "Lexa?" You flinch back but strong fingers wrap around your wrist and keep you close. "Not yet," she says and draws you in. Before her lips can meet yours you wake. 

Indra stands over you with a halo of dawn skies and black branches behind her. "Heda, this is unsafe." She leans down to take your arm and drag you to your feet. "You're already injured." 

You sway, still unsteady even with the hours since you stopped drinking, and your eye hurts. "Oh that was just a conversation I had with, with Sky Prisa." You roll the ‘r’ in Prisa smiling until you stumble and have to hold fast to Indra's shoulders.

The woman tuts at you as she does with the youngest seconds.

"I am trouble for you," you grumble stepping one foot in front of the other. 

Indra grunts with effort as she guides you over roots and stones to the city's edges.

"The world is trouble for me," Indra replies carrying much of your weight forward. Indra cares too much at all times and you wonder if that keeps her more safe or in more danger.

"How many Heda's have you pledged yourself to?" You ask as you hobble past tents and into alleyways.

"Enough." Always succinct.

There's a sigh in your lungs but it doesn't come out as you wonder just how old Indra is. Older than most warriors you know.

"Were they all this much trouble when they were young as me?"

"Heda's are always young as you," She replies.

You think she's not answered you but then realise what she means. A Heda never grows much older than you are now before her soul needs to find a new life. Indra is always trailing after strong girls with sharp minds and haunted hearts.

"You must be tired of picking up after this old soul." You're starting to feel melancholy, the spectre of death too close for comfort in your dizzy haze.

You lose your grip of Indra's shoulders and she lets you fall to the ground, your already bruised backside dropping onto wet cobbles. She kneels down and sits on her haunches, gripping the back of your hair to bring your attention back to her.

"Yes, I am tired," Indra says. "My soul is tired of trailing after yours. But our people need a leader with a General who puts Heda's best interests first. You carry the burden of their survival, and when the weight of command is more than one girl can bear, I carry you."

Your heart aches at the sincerity in her voice. "Did any of your other Heda's fall for an untouchable spirit?" You're babbling in a stupid dangerous way and Indra tries to shush you before pulling you back to standing. 

"You have a big heart, Heda. You have always shared it with others." There's a bitterness in her voice you think you recognise. Indra has loved before, might even have loved her Heda before.

She leaves you at your door before you can ask her any more. "You need to rest. Go to bed and sleep."

You nod and cross the threshold into your home. "Thank you Indra." She nods, walks away, and doesn't accept your thanks. 

//

It's late in the day when you wake, later than you'd wanted and the sun is too bright. Your head is thumping with your pulse and churning in your stomach. Your body aches all over, there's a gash on your wrist and your face ache's as if you were in a fight. Touching the ridge of your eye, last night in the woods emerges from the haze and you let out a groan. 

Sitting up in your bed you rub the sleep from your eyes and see that the girl from last night is gone. You sigh and flop back onto your pillows. Even worse than the gibberish that earned you the black eye from Clarke was your behaviour. That moment in your doorway with the girl is clearest in your mind. The way you looked at Clarke and she at you, as you pulled the girl in harder; you played a game of wanting and having all while staring at Clarke, thinking of Clarke.

The beautiful and wholly alive Skai Prisa stumbled back into your life with hate in her eyes, a belt of knives on her thigh, and you wanted her. You want her still.

 

Levering yourself out of bed, you swallow back the bile rising up your throat, bathe and dress, leaving your hair out to dry across your shoulders. A loose dress is comfortable in the rising temperatures, and it's too late in the day to leave for the farms now.

You want to see Clarke, to apologise. You don't know what you can do for her, if there's anything that she will let you do for her. She is justified in looking at you in the way she does.  Whenever you close your eyes you see clearly that moment you walked away from her and from her people, see the pain you caused her. You know it was right to take the deal to save your people no matter how much it cost her, no matter the ache in your own chest. You would do it again in a heartbeat.

Still. 

//

Clarke doesn’t answer when you knock. There’s too much between you to walk away so you open the door regardless and she's there in the balcony's sun watching people in the street. She’s clean and still dressed in sleep clothes, the sun lights her hair and her face appears almost peaceful. Her body is tense though. The shaved side of her head more visible as she listens to your approach.

"Why did you make your hair like this?" The pain in your head stops you considering your words. Or maybe that’s just what Clarke does to you, makes you incapable of thinking.

"You don’t like it?" Her voice is flat and you’re close enough to see that her eyes are the same. Clarke touches her hand to her temple pushing fingertips through the fuzz on her left side. 

"No, I like it," you say. "Very much."

Her shoulders are bare exposing scar covered skin. A wide stretch of discolouration marks her right arm and shoulder. Her gaze flickers to yours then away and you wish you could still read her as well as she reads you.

"I am curious." Such admissions feel simple with her here.

She lets out a sharp breath  through her nose. "Well, you know what curiosity did to the cat."

"I am not a cat," you say even though you know the idiom. You hope that she’ll laugh. 

She doesn’t.

"I can hear better." Clarke scrubs her fingers over her scalp again then drops both her hands to the balcony rail.

There are scars in lines around both her wrists. Left by rope, you think, tied for many days and you wonder about the skin you can’t see. She pauses for so long you think she won’t say anymore.

Then she adds, "I lost my hearing in the right ear. Needed to make up the difference." She gestures with her right arm and you can see the scars on her shoulder are from burns as well as lacerations. An explosion.

"Hurts," you say thinking of a similar scar wrapped around your calf.

Clarke nods and looks away from you. "Bonus of shaving it back is how much you can feel in the air around you."

She must worry about being stabbed in the back. You have the same concern but you also have a life time of training to help keep you safe. Clarke has nothing but instinct and will.

"Do you have any plans now?" It might be a bad question. You wonder if she still means to kill you.

Clarke looks at you for a long time, her eyes flickering to the dark bruise surrounding your eye. "No," she says and you take a shaky breath at recognising the lie.

//

She agrees to come out with you for breakfast.

"I’ll need something to change into," she says gesturing to damp clothes hanging around the room to dry.

You offer your own clothes, she follows you to your cupboard and picks out pants along with a loose fitting shirt. She strips down without a care for your presence but you turn to the wall anyway. After last night you can’t pretend she doesn’t affect you. She knows she does. As you examine the plaster you decide you’re glad to know she’s not carrying any more weapons.

On the street the sun is hot and bright and you feel the pounding in your head getting worse. Clarke watches in her peripheral and smirks when you wince at the sounds of children squealing. "Heda," they yell out for you. You wave at them but don’t meet their gazes knowing they’ll want you to play. 

You take Clarke to the far side of the markets for your favourite hangover cure. You pay the fruit seller for both your your breakfast and Clarke's. Clarke sniffs at her fruit and the cured beef pieces as if checking for anything dangerous.

"You’re safe," you tell her but she doesn’t believe you. 

The fruit is fresh and delicious as always and Clarke gives in to her hunger. You see her first real smile as she bites into some Mango and you want to kiss the juice from her lips. "New?," you ask, looking away from her.

She hums a yes hunting around for another piece in the mix. You offer her yours and she accepts despite herself. She doesn’t say thank you but she’s still smiling so you don’t mind. 

The fruit seller is watching you both with a smile of her own. "Would you like some more?"

She holds out another bowl. You look at Clarke but she hasn’t heard since the woman is on her right side. You accept the bowl for her and Clarke’s little smile gets brighter.

//

The Polis centre square is clear of any sign of the festival and you regret Clarke not experiencing it. She could have seen what their sacrifice brought to the people of Polis and all the surrounding regions. There was so much life on festival night, and you know Clarke has seen too much of death.

Walking with Clarke in the sun you can see there’s more scars on her arms and on her face. Silvery and white in some places against the tan of her skin which is darker than you remember.

"Why did you leave?" The questions keep falling from you and she turns away every time.

"You know what I did."

You stop walking because you do know but you don’t understand how she became this. You don't know what experience pulled all the life from her eyes as if she’d never even experienced it to begin with.

"You did what you had to," you assure her. 

Clarke stops with you. "Yes, and then I left."

"They thought you were gone." You don’t say the word dead.

"I guess they still do."

You keep walking, understanding that you must be the first familiar face Clarke has seen in a long time.

"It’s peaceful here," she says as you pass the edge of the square and wander into a row of houses.

Some people wave at you but most continue in their business, likely not recognising their Heda, dressed as you are. "We are at peace," you say.

"And what do you know about peace, Commander?"

You remember a time before battle when she told you she had no plans should you survive. She's told you there was more to life than survival, yet she couldn't imagine herself in a time where that was possible. Now she’s here, having seen and done the things she never thought herself capable of, and she is broken, without purpose. 

She is still waiting for an answer. What do you know about peace?

"I’ll show you."

//

It takes time to reach the fields on foot so the day is almost done by the time you arrive. Workers are dragging in the last of their crops. Clarke looks around with wide eyes taking in everything at once. She knows you’re watching her and touches the scars on her arms self consciously.

You want to take her hand but resist knowing that’s the last thing she wants. 

"We had hydro farms back on the Ark." Clarke’s voice is low and tremulous. "I knew they were small but I thought I could guess what a real farm looked like." She peers up at the sky blue and clear, at the shadows cast by each plant row and the workers in their colourful shawls and hats, the green overflowing growth. "I got it so wrong."

"Better than you thought?" You want her to say yes. You want her to tell you that all of earth is more beautiful and more alive than she could have imagined. You want her to smile again.

"Bigger," she says. "Everything here is _more_ than I imagined."

Everything is more, and you know that includes prosperous farms and blue skies, but that also includes fear and death, pain and terrible loss.

You can see it in her eyes. On the ground, even beautiful things terrify her.

 

As the sun disappears they’re invited to eat with the families off the fields.

"Come enjoy food you pulled from the ground, Heda." The lead farmer, Ren jokes with you happily and you translate his words into english automatically.

"You work with them?" Clarke asks.

Ren is still smiling at you so you nod. "We are at peace," you say again. In Trigedasleng you agree to join their meal and Ren gives a small cheer then bows with no small amount of mockery. 

"You’ll bring your friend?"

You ask Clarke and she accepts.

"There will be a few disappointed girls around our fire tonight, I think." Ren walks away with a hooting laugh and you choose not to translate that part.

Clarke looks like she can guess his words but makes no comment.

She rushes instead to help a woman that is struggling past under the weight of her produce. The woman hands over her basket gladly and you pick another up from the ground to follow behind them. Clarke moves among your people with an ease you wouldn’t have thought possible. She nods at the woman who babbles at her in a language she doesn’t understand and whenever the woman looks up for a response Clarke says ‘Sha.’

Her almost smile tears at your heart and you realise that she is at her most comfortable when helping, when she is taking care of others. As dinner is prepared she makes herself useful, chopping up vegetables and laying out plates on the long timber table.

She laughs when the others laugh and the smile almost meets her eyes.

You’re seated together when dinner is spread out as a feast; it’s the kind of meal which can only happen in summer with fresh meat, vegetables and sweet wine. The kind of meal that brings strangers together as family, and coaxes well loved stories out to play. You’re asked about the black eye and you lie but no one seems to mind.

You translate in a hurried murmur to Clarke who leans in so close your nerves tingle. You drink more than you should but so does Clarke and she doesn’t pull away when your arm bushes hers.

"You don’t have to translate everything for me," she says looking at your half finished plate. 

"I don’t want you to miss anything." You don’t want her to miss a single moment of your people’s joy.

"I understand enough," she says. 

Ren sneaks up behind you. "Skai Prisa is a quick learn," he says in stilted english. In Trigeda he asks Clarke if she wants the last ear of corn from the bowl in front of her. 

Before you can say anything she puts her hand on your arm and replies. "Dawn like yaun." Her phrasing is terrible and you can’t help but smile as Ren laughs, dives in for his food and rushes away. She looks at you like her point is proven.

"That is close enough," you concede.

"So stop, Leksa. I can get by." She looks down as she says your name. It’s the first time she's said your name since she arrived. You hope it isn’t the last.

//

You both drink too much yet not enough, and you refuse the offer of a place to sleep knowing that they don’t mean in separate beds. You walk away with a woven basket of potatoes, corn and onion and you try to force a reminder into your mind to repay them tomorrow. Clarke is smiling more easily and accepts a hug from a little boy that had taken a liking to her. He kisses her cheek with a blush then runs back to his mother and you push down the irrational jealousy.

Clarke shakes her head. "At least someone liked me."

You look at her confused, moving down the path back into the trees that separate the city from her fields. "They all loved you."

"Not the girl sitting across from us. She was glaring at me all night." You don’t remember any girl and tell her as much. "Tall, gold-brown eyes and hair. By the way she looked at you, I’m guessing she’s," Clarke hesitates, looking for the right word. "A screamer?" she adds at last with a smirk. 

You’re still confused until something clicks and you blush, glad for the dark so deep in the trees. The truth is there might have been a girl there, maybe two that you’d taken to bed but you wouldn’t know. Clarke was the only girl you saw all night. Anyone else was background.

"Oh," you say stupidly.

Clarke doesn’t push you any further. "They seem so happy there," she says, her smile dimming.

"They have a lot to be happy about." You hope to remind her of the part she played. "You did that."

Clarke shakes her head and turns away.

The alcohol draws more words to your tongue, or maybe it’s just Clarke that breaks down your cautious walls.

"You made those families whole again. Because of you they live in peace without constant fear of being taken, of having their children snatched away in the night."

"No don’t." Clarke stumbles away from you and the warmth of the fire seems very far away.

"Why not? Why won’t you see the good of what you did?" You grab at her arm but Clarke snatches it away as if burned.

"You weren’t there!" She shouts, tears already in her eyes. "You walked away, you took your fucking army and you left me there. You didn’t see the bodies, you didn’t have to—" her voice chokes off. "Do you know how many people I’ve killed? Do you know the first—?" she breaks off and looks away.

"My men. I sent them there to kill you." You know she knows this. Had accepted this.

"Wrong," she spits out. "I had blood on my hands from the first week on the fucking ground." She looks up at the sky hoping for stars, you think. "It was so beautiful when we opened that door. And then everything went to hell. The first time the acid fog came through we had no idea."

Her voice gets softer, lower and she fiddles over the scars on her wrist as words keep poring out.

"Atom was trapped outside. When I found them, Bellamy was there with a knife in his hand. Fucking 'Whatever We Want' Bellamy was sitting there looking at this kid," she’s crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "His friend was begging to die. His eyes were white, burned away, every part of him covered in blisters."

"I’ve seen it." You know what a man sounds like when he begs for death.

"Another year in the clinic and I would have been a doctor, a healer. Did you know that? I know a hundred ways to kill someone. I took the knife. And I pushed it into his throat exactly where I knew it would kill him the fastest. And it was easy. He was a kid. I killed him and I felt. Nothing. Like killing him was—. I felt nothing." She looks at her hands as if for evidence of guilt.

You don’t understand. "I’ve seen you. You feel, Clarke. I know you do."

"Oh you know?" She spins around and pins you with a look so fierce you take a step back. "Do you know how I felt when I sunk that blade into his neck," she paces back and forth spiralling into a rage. "How I felt when I killed three hundred of your men, when I shot through Lincoln to kill the man behind him, when I pulled that lever and murdered children?"

She yells at the last words and swings a fist into the trunk of the nearest tree. Both fists slam into the bark, horrible thumps and cracks sounding before you can pull her away. She spins and tries to hit you instead. She’s too close, jerks in your arms and tries to pull away but you’re stronger than she is. You pull her into your chest until she gives in and falls against you. 

You hold her close, murmur soft nonsense into her ear stroking her hair. "I can’t," she tells you. "I killed all of them and I felt nothing."

"But you saved so many." You don’t let go, you won’t let go. She mutters something else that you can’t hear. You think she says the word monster and know she’s talking about herself. _Destroyer_ the Trikru called her. "You’re not a monster," you say and squeeze her closer. "You couldn’t have done the things you have if you were. A monster has no mercy. A monster doesn’t put herself in harms way for those she loves, a monster would not have made the decisions you have because they would not have been asked to. Your people chose you, Clarke."

"I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to exist.’ She’s begging and your heart aches.

You pull her closer as she falls into thick heavy sobs.

"You have to kill me. Take the guilt and the pain and the burden. I don’t want it, I’m not strong enough. Kill me please take all this away. Be what they need me to be so I don’t have to."

"Who needs?" you ask. She’s not making sense and her words are slurring.

"All of them, everyone. They want too much. I can’t, I can’t be anything for them. It’s your fault. You owe me." She pushes away from you then. "You owe me." She thumps a bloody fist into her chest. "Kill me, please."

"No." You owe her life not death and she has no right to ask it of you. "I will not."

You remember when you thought she had tried to poison you. The betrayal you felt more keenly than you should have, like something precious had been torn from you. She glares at you now and demands you take her life, demands that you be responsible for extinguishing the light from her eyes.

"I won’t let you die."

"Fuck you," she spits. 

You take a step toward her and she lifts up both her fists but you grab her arms tightly. "Fuck you," you shout back to her. She continues to glare and when she leans in you think you’re ready for whatever she might say. But no words come and she kisses you instead. 

"Fuck you," she says against your lips and kisses you again.

She breaks from you, sprints away through the trees and you can only follow, dress tangling around your legs. She dashes back toward Polis and you wish you were playing, that your heart was beating fast for the game and not for the chance that Clarke will do for herself what she demands from you.

She races ahead and you catch up with her outside of your home. She leans against the door exhausted and crying.

"Clarke?" you question in a quiet voice.

She doesn’t reply and when you lay a gentle hand on her shoulder she turns into your arms, her knees giving way so you have no choice but to support her through the door and upstairs. She doesn’t open her eyes until she’s in her bed and you try to leave. 

"Wait." She grabs your arm.

Not tight enough that you couldn’t pull away, but her hand is a gentle anchor pulling you down. You kneel on the bed and she turns to her side, posture rigid until you lie next to her, chest to her back, knees tucked in behind hers, arm wrapped over her side. She pulls your hand under her chin and you can feel more scars along her collar bone. You rub the back of your thumb over the raised flesh and Clarke sighs, voice cracking with a sob. You hold her tight against your chest as tears soak her hair.

"I’m sorry," she cries over and again.

You remember words that had been a comfort to you. "When the weight of command is more than one girl can can bear, I will carry you." You kiss her shoulder and cheek, and tell her everything will be brighter in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was nearly only one 'fuck' uttered in this chapter but then I scraped another one in on the final edit.  
> Come wallow in feels with me if you like dancetyd on tumblr

_Open your eyes_  
_And there was someone else_

 

You sleep beside her. Not because it isn’t dangerous, and not because Clarke is someone you should trust. You don't trust anyone.

But you are so tired. A lifetime of waiting cautious in the dark for a knife at your back or hands round your throat has brought on an apathy so strong as to drag you under. So you succumb, and you fall into dreams. If Clarke chooses to kill you, as you would have if the betrayal was hers, then you might just welcome it. Not because you want to die. But because Clarke’s lust for your death would mean she wants something more than just her own life to end. 

And you are very tired.

 

You dream of a time before battle when you admitted too much. 'Not everyone, not you.'

 

It’s still dark when you wake so the time that you’ve slept can't be judged. Clarke has turned toward you in sleep, her fingers tangled in the fabric of your dress, and you feel as if you’ve fallen into the pages of a story book. Wrapped around a sleeping princess, you can’t find the motivation to leave. One of your arms is trapped between you, your hand resting against her stomach, the other warm on her hip. Clarke is peaceful and calm in sleep and your fingers twitch in longing to touch her hair or smooth over her cheek. 

She lets out a deep breath and her eyes fall open. Her gaze comes into focus and she looks at you with a smile bright with gladness. Something small as a coin flips inside you at the sweetness of it but before you can share your own smile, the light flees from her; from memories of you and the things you both have done.

Her breath quickens in panic. She’s tense, eyes staring and scanning every corner of the room twice before spinning back to you then back to the room again. You force yourself to breathe slowly hoping your own calm will settle her. 

Her eyes flick to your mouth, your eyes again and finally holds. You don't know what to say, how to reassure her. You take a breath, to tell her that everything is okay, but she takes that breath and replaces it with her own.

Lips crash into yours, her fingers tangle in your shirt and her kiss charges energy into your lips – into your blood stream. 

There's nothing else in your mind then except Clarke as she opens her lips and slants her mouth against yours. Your fingers twist into the fabric over her hip, against her stomach, and you feel her tense, pulling you into her and relaxing. Clarke. Clarke surrounds you, is all you can feel. You groan and breathe heavy into each other's mouths, tongue and lips and teeth fall against yours as you both gasp and pull and shift into lying tight against one another. 

She kisses you as if all she's ever needed is to drink your lips and drown in your breath.

A hand wanders up your bare arm, and one slips back down over your thigh past the edge of your dress which is rising with your movements. Her teeth pull at your lower lip as she grips your knee and tugs until your leg is wrapped over her hip. A pulse runs through you and it becomes clear for the first time how much you like being handled like that: Clarke put you where she wants you to be.

You have to pull back just enough to gasp. You lick at her mouth, and pull in her lower lip with both of yours. 

"Clarke," you gasp as  _fuck_ trips from her tongue but she doesn’t releases the pressure of her lips from yours.

She continues to trail her fingertips up under your knee and higher towards your body, heat joins a thumping pulse between your thighs and your hips jerk forward. She gasps your name urgent and direct, pulls you in tighter, and shifts her thigh to press against you. A grunt escapes your throat and she presses her knee down again, her tongue licking past your teeth, fingers tangling in your hair. 

You're already so over heated and she’s barely touched you.

"Please," you say against her lips, not knowing what you're asking for.

At the plea her hands tense against your neck and thigh, tight enough to bruise. Her mouth pulls from yours, both of you gasping. 

For a moment you could feel her there with you, warm and present as she gasped your name. Now you feel her withdraw, she pulls away without even moving.

Clarke sighs a shaky breath against your cheek and the air stills between you. Her body curls from yours and she’s slipping away like so much water through you fingers. Her body is warm against you still, but her hands withdraw from your hair, and you can’t help but chase them to tangle your fingers with hers. 

As you catch your breath she sighs and you can feel the sharp reprimand against herself in the shape of her spine, and the line of her shoulders. Regret. You share in each other's breath for long agonising minutes, foreheads resting together and your fingers tangled. 

Finally, she pulls back, turns over and you chance a kiss to her shoulder. She curls closer to you, her back to your front and she doesn't have to ask you to wrap your arm around her waist. Your heart slams against your ribs and you can't deny any wanting impulse.

Your mind boiling over, you push away the hope her kiss brought you. The best you can ask for right now is that she stays with you for a few hours longer.

 

You fall back into sleep and dream of blissful impossible summers with Clarke by your side. You sprint through the woods of your childhood for fun instead of from fear, chasing the sun and the sky. You dream of a home with her, of welcome arms and open hearts. Clarke smiles and dances in your arms, twirling and laughing. 

A child’s laughter startles you awake.

 

Clarke has left your arms as you dreamed. The space she occupied is still warm and you allow a deep breath of her beside you, allow yourself another moment of sweet fantasy before sitting up to fully awaken. She’s still there in the room and you find her without searching; out on the balcony she’s leaning against the rail and watching Polis start a new day. 

You slide from the bed deliberately making noise as you approach. Her shoulders tense, fingers trail over the scars on one wrist.

"Clarke, I—"

"Don’t," she cuts you off but her voice softens as she continues. "If I hurt you enough, do you think you would kill me?"

Your breath pulls in, too much like a sob. Is that why she kissed you like she did? To hurt you? It doesn’t matter.

You consider telling her to go fuck herself but instead give, "No," as your firm reply. "I couldn’t—."

"You should go, Commander." Her voice is cold, and when you take another step toward her, she flinches.

Her reaction catches you in the gut, leaves you breathless, and you retreat to the door. You can't help but want her to stay and you turn back to her.

"There will be people here later if you need anthing."

Clarke doesn't respond but her good ear is turned toward you, listening.

"My home is yours." You hesitate, hoping for some sign that she won’t run from whatever happened last night. "For as long as you choose." Her shoulders move with breath but she doesn’t respond.

 

In the hallway with nothing but a flimsy door shut between you, a breath catches in your chest harsh enough to burn. You hurt for her. Pressing fingers to your eyelids to clear your mind you stumble into your closed door all elbows and knees. There’s a note pinned at eye level; the militia you set up to protect Polis and the alliance of twelve clans would benefit from their commander’s guidance. You scrunch the summons into a ball and toss it into the farthest corner of your room, resenting the obligation that draws you in.

You bathe first, washing away the soil, smell and textures of the farms. You wash away the feeling of Clarke asleep in your arms, the feeling you likely won’t experience again in this life. After so many months, your armour feels cold and restricting but the metal also feels real and right as it warms and moulds to your body. Your reflection in armour is more familiar than any other. If Anya stood behind you now this would be one of the clearest and most persistent images of your life.

The warrior Heda reflected here is who you are meant to be. Whether you like it or not. 

//

 

At the barracks you learn that the rumours of bandits stalking the edges of your territory persist and you know you must take greater responsibility for this new Polis militia. The full strength of your Woods Clan with the eleven clans allied under your name must fall upon the criminals in your territory and this fledgling militia is your new right arm. 

With a hundred soldiers training in formation at your feet you feel an echo of the elation war brought to your heart. Today you only feel regret. Regret for the rich farming soil so far from your hands, the soft farm clothes left folded in your room. You regret being so far from Clarke. 

 

Despite your fears she stays in your home and takes your place on Ren’s farm. You don’t see her in the few hours you're home but you know that she’s there. You find small markers of her presence, her using your plates, reading your books, living and maybe thriving in a space that has been empty and disused for so long. Small signs of Clarke bringing life to those rooms give you hope that's bright if fleeting. 

These past three nights you heard her crying.

Within the high stone walls of the new barracks Indra directs your warriors. She has a fierce growl that you can only ever replicate in war, she lives for the fight in a way that you are expected to, and you wonder why the commander’s Spirit chooses as she does, girls young as yourself. Indra kicks at the back of a straggling warrior, pushes him from her ranks, and you remember. Indra would have seen the sky people burn, could never have kept the coalition together. Only the young dream of peace. A young Heda will die for that dream, another dreamer can take her place, and little by little that peace can be won.

After hours of drills, a young woman wearing messenger colours appears at the barracks entryway and runs toward you.

"Heda, another group of traders was attacked."

You had feared this would happen before your militia was ready. "Any killed?" You will need to respond to this attack on your people.

"Two killed. Gunshots."

Her reply is breathless from more than her run and you can’t help but think of Clarke and her weapons hidden under your mattress.

The messenger continues. "They say it’s a man in Mountain colours."

It takes a long moment for you to register her meaning. The Mountain has fallen, Clarke saw to that. Except there was still one left, Bellamy of the sky people told you as much a year ago, when they came looking for Clarke in Polis, looking for her with you.

"Emmerson," you growl out the name as you remember his face.

You remember that night when the blood of his brethren was fresh hot on your blade and splashed across your skin. He dared look you in the eye as he offered up a deal for your people. Not his deal. A better man’s corrupted attempt at peace.

"Heda?" The messenger knows as well as you that action must be taken, that her day, like yours, has only just started.

"I want his head!" Your voice is loud enough to catch Indra’s attention and she breaks the warriors' formation in favour of joining you. "The Mountain Man has attacked and killed two of our people," you tell her.

Indra doesn’t need the same moment to remember. Your retreat had torn Indra’s prideful spirit and she blames the mountain men rather than you. "Heda, let me take a group of our warriors out to find him—"

"He has evaded us for too long." You turn back to the messenger. "Offer him up to anyone with a blade. Bring his head to me for a reward. Whatever they would ask."

Indra is just as thirsty as you are. "But Heda—"

"Now!" You leave the confining barracks before the urge to draw your sword becomes too strong and Indra has the good sense not to follow you.

 

You don’t know where you’re walking to until you’re deep into the forest. The air is calm but for the insects and wind and life in the trees. You walk further, and the smells of farmlands mingle with overheated undergrowth. You’re searching for Clarke. You know it’s foolish but that understanding is quashed beneath the need to see her alive and well. You slow just in time to keep from crashing out into the open, the last line of trees between you and Ren’s farm. You don’t know what field she could be working in but instinct has drawn you here.

Clarke is close, crouched down in a small crop plucking something green into a cloth bag. She looks serene in the sunlight, pretty and golden, face shaded by a wide floppy hat, her body wrapped in light coloured cloth. She appears almost happy and you understand the selfishness of your impulse to come here. You aim to turn away but it’s too late, your arrival was noticed, your purpose assumed and a girl you recognise from your time here approaches Clarke. 

Clarke turns to Elise as she approaches and you feel a spike of jealousy at the smile the girl receives. Elise says something and points toward the trees where you’re still visible enough though shrouded in cold shadow. Clarke says a few more words to Elise and passes the bag of greens to her with thanks. When she turns back to the woods the smile has fallen from her eyes and you hate that you came here. It’s too late to leave so you wait, holding tight to the hilt of your sword and praying for some kind of strength.

Clarke takes off her layers of sun protection as she reaches the shade, indulging in the cool that you know will be welcome after the heat outside. There’s that small flip in your stomach as you drink her in. She appears soft and young again dressed as she is in loose slacks and a soft singlet which clings to her sides. There’s more scars visible on her arms, her neck and shoulders but still she appears more girl than warrior.

You can’t help the mental leap that brings the image to your mind of Emmerson standing over her – the image of Clarke as she is now, except broken and bloodied by his hands. Clarke sees the tension in you and steps closer, reaching out on impulse.

"What’s wrong?" Concern for others is like breathing to Clarke and you smother the hope her tone provokes in you.

You remember how she begged with tears in her eyes for you to take away her burdens and you don’t want to tell her, but you can’t deny her answers when she looks at you as she does now.

"Emmerson." Only his name makes it through your gritted teeth but Clarke understands.

She freezes over in a second, the openness of moments ago is shuttered and gone. You think you see a glimmer of fear in her eyes and rush to sooth her.

"You are safe here." It’s more than you should promise.

"I should go." She turns, wrapping herself up against the bright sun and not waiting for a response before walking way.

You want to call after her. You want to say her name and see her turn back to you with all the sweetness you remember from a year ago. You want to hold and protect her but she doesn’t want you, your comfort or your protection. She knows and she will keep herself safe if she chooses to.

//

The militia keeps you from returning home until late in the evening and by the time you can check, Clarke her weapons and everything she arrived with are already gone. Clarke has fled and you can't send someone after her – she is not yours to keep.

You allow Indra to form her hunting party but don’t revoke the bounty on Emmerson, seeing every advantage in hurrying the man’s execution by whatever means available to you. 

//

Clarke is gone for two restless nights and on the second morning you wake with a resolve to find her, to protect her until Emmerson is dealt with. The sky is only grey with dawn and it takes the thought of what could have woken you to notice the weight on the edge of your bed. A knife is in your hand and against her throat before you realise that Clarke has slipped so quietly into your room. 

"You are getting too complacent here," she comments, turning to look at you.

She’s dressed as she was on her arrival in Polis though her clothes show more mud and green now than dust. She has a fresh cut on her cheek which will likely scar but she looks almost lighter for it. Her eyes are less haunted than they were a few days ago. 

You take your blade from her throat – her blade really, since it is the one you took from her when she first arrived, and turn your back on her to return the weapon to your bedside. She scoffs at how comfortable you are with her.

"I am tired," you shrug as you settle against your pillows, feet tucked under the blankets and hands resting on your knees. 

"You kwelness," she says and you know she’s not talking about your lack of sleep. She makes you weak.

"I’m glad to see you, Clarke." The admission comes half from your exhaustion, half from relief that she is safe. All logic says you are foolish to trust her now and maybe you are but you would risk much more than death for her. 

"Is the bounty still offered for Emmerson?" She turns away from you, from the way that you look at her.

"You are safe here," you insist longing to touch her in some small way.

"That’s not what I asked." Her voice is soft, like she’s reminding you of some small thing.

"Yes, there is still an offer."

"Good." She kicks something with her feet and you peer over the edge of your bed to see a rough knotted bag rolled across the floor toward you. Bile rises in your throat as you recognise the shape and weight of its contents. Clarke stands, silhouetted against the window with her hand resting on the hilt of a machete hanging new and heavy on her hips. "I’m here to collect."

You swallow, breathing hard through your nose. You have made the mistake of assuming too much based on too little. Clarke is scared, and she wants to die, but she is far from helpless. That’s why she needs you.

"Why would you go after him?" You swing your legs off the bed avoiding the bag with Emmerson’s head.

Her lips are a firm line before she replies. "The bounty." You know there are wounds festering beneath this cool mask.

You scoff wanting to provoke her, to see the fire which drove her to hunt him down, which only shows as a flicker behind her eyes. "I thought I was the liar."

Clarke bristles at you using her own words. "He– whatever else has happened to me…" She points at the bag on the floor. ‘He is one of my nightmares."

"And now?"

She straightens and grips the hilt of the machete hanging heavy from her belt. "Dead men aren’t hungry."

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Better not to be_  
_the first one_  
diving in  
_though you caught me_  
_and you know why_

 _You breathe in_  
_the deepest part_  
_of the water._

 

 

You fight the shiver that tingles between your shoulder blades. "His body?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," you realise. It doesn't. 

The way that Clarke is silhouetted against the window is unsettling so you stand to walk around her. With the light at your back instead of hers you can see her eyes again.

"You killed him for currency?"

"Not money, no."

You don't understand what she could mean for a moment and then as the sun peeks through your window to paint her face golden you realise.

She nods with a grim smile. "You said anything I would name."

You drag frustrated hands through your hair. "Them. Not you– That's never what I meant. I never thought—." Your words slip into Trigedasleng as you pace the floor.

"Why is this so hard for you?" Clarke follows your movements with her cool gaze.

Pain-fuelled rage boils up in you again. "How can you ask me this?"

She hesitates, having to translate your rushed words before she can reply. "How many times should you have killed me? How is it so unreasonable when I ask it now?"

How can she not understand your care for her? You turn away and step out onto the balcony to look up at the sky. You've not had the chance to wander these last few nights and you miss the absent stars. You calm down enough to translate your thoughts for her.

"I've never been able to face the thought of ending your life, Clarke."

She scoffs, not seeing how much that confession costs you. Below you a new day is starting but here it feels like a world is ending.

The words in her language escape you so you use your own. "I've felt too much for you since the day we met."

She stands next to you, her hand on the railing beside yours. You could extend the fingers of your hand just a little and be touching her. The vastness of your feeling threatens to split you in two. You could welcome such a rending if it meant Clarke could see. You glance up to find her looking right at you.

She glances at your lips then looks away. "I killed three hundred of your men," she says.

You know. "I sent them there to kill you."

There's no way to consolidate the circumstances of your meeting with your immediate want for her. The Sky Prisa had captured your imagination. You say as much aloud.

"I knew i wanted you before i even knew you." You hope Clarke understands your quiet confession and you force the next words out in English. "Every minute with you since, has only confirmed you’re the one I was waiting for."

"I'm not her." Clarke's eyes are wet with tears. "I’m not that girl. When I'm gone you'll know that."

You laugh aloud. "You've been gone for a year and you're still all I can think about."

She shakes her head refusing to accept your assurances. Like her edges are too shadowed by grief to see it. "Please Leksa?"

Your name on her tongue could bring you to your knees but in this you will remain strong. "I understand what it means to live a short brutal life, Clarke. I promise I will give you anything else that is within my power to give. Anything but that."

She searches your eyes for something and looks away without finding it. ‘Okay, Commander.’ Her fingers flex on the rail as if to take your hand. She doesn’t. She walks away from you across the hallway and into her own room. She leaves Emmerson's head behind and you don't touch it until you're dressed as the commander again.

//

You return to the barracks and don’t see Clarke for the rest of the day. Emmerson’s death is announced to anyone still hunting him and you ask Indra to never let you offer anything so stupid as a limitless bounty again. When she asks who brought him in you consider a lie. Clarke’s legend is grown large enough. But the gossip will be out of your control.

"The Brave One," you admit.

Indra is difficult to read but you think she’s impressed. "Prisa is strong." She can see you are angry. "Has she asked you for something you will not give?" Somehow she knows that Clarke would not ask for any riches.

"She has."

"Is her request a dishonourable one?" She doesn't like the thought that you might go back on your word again.

You try and imagine what Clarke’s death by your hand might look like. Maybe a hand to hand contest with one knife each. You think fighting her would feel like dancing. You would move around one another, she with a smirk on her lips. You remember how it felt when she backed you into a table and called you a liar. There would be adrenalin of course and passion as well. You and Clarke have never lacked passion. 

As her equal you could help her in that final fight, she could find a worthy death at the end of your blade. She could find consolation there, some sense of atonement, and her legend would burn all the brighter. Your blade would slide through the skin of her throat and all those children would have no one left to haunt. You can almost hear the words spoken over her cooling body, _Your fight is over_.

"No," is your final answer. "Clarke asks only for her own life to be ended." You examine Indra’s expression close enough to see the doubt flicker there. "I will not give her that," you say.

"Will she not find other means?" You think Indra would grant Clarke’s request if she were asked.

"No, she will not."

//

You leave Indra and your armour behind you as afternoon turns to evening. Your favourite tavern is full when you arrive. The days have been blurring together and you failed to notice the end of a trading week. The noise and life brings a lightness to your heart as you’re greeted by shouts of welcome. With your hair in braids, the thick black pants covering your legs and your dark leather boots, it’s hard to mistake you for anything less than the Heda. At the bar, a girl slides in next to you. She has bright eyes and a smile as sweet as any you’ve seen in a while.

  
You drink to forget. As your pain is losing focus, a group crashes through the door and diverts your companion’s attention. Since you’re several drinks in you tip your fingers under her chin to draw her eyes back to yours. You make a comment about distractions and the depth of her dimples to see the blush stain her cheeks. Draining your mug you stand for another round and find yourself floating a little on the alcohol. The girl giggles at your crooked smile and you ask her not to go anywhere.

Walking to the bar you turn to see the boisterous new group settle at a table at the room’s opposite end. There’s a few boys from Ren’s farm. Some of the girls too, and in the middle is Clarke. Her gaze falls on you and you haven’t the time to turn, so you meet her eyes instead. She registers no shock at seeing you there. As if she expects you to be there wherever she happens to look.

  
When you return, the girl notices the absence of your smile, but you wave off her questions. You sit down with four more mugs in front of you and know this is a bad idea. You meet Clarke’s eyes across the room, throw back the first drink and realise it’s a very terrible idea. Your attention is drawn back by the girl’s wandering hands and her alcohol-rich breath tickles your neck. Forcing a smile you try to focus on her.

You spend as much time focusing on the girl as Clarke does on her own companions. In your periphery Clarke is drinking; she laughs and smiles at the girls she is with. One of them, Elise again, is handing Clarke more drinks and leaning in close. You hate her and Clarke turns to you too often. Neither Elise nor the girl you’re with seem to notice your distractions.

You scour your bleary mind for the girl’s name and guess, "Reyen." It’s heartbreaking how glad she is that you remembered. "I should tell you about my friend." You think you’ve interrupted her but she doesn’t seem to mind. She squeezes your thigh and nods excited.

"One of the sky people?"

"You know about them?"

She looks away shy as she shrugs. "As much as anyone." She picks up another drink for herself.

Clarke is demonstrating something with Elise’s hands held between her own. You hold onto Reyen’s knee with one hand, your arm wrapped over her shoulders. "Their leader is brave."

"Like you," she says and you can’t help but think that she’s sweet as she grazes her nose with yours and then her lips against your cheek.

Elise is threading something into Clarke’s hair, leaning in much too close.

You say, "Their leader is braver than me, too full of courage and heart and trust. I saw it as weakness." You empty another cup and drop it back to the table.

"Trust is dangerous," Reyen says her tone suggesting they’re your words not hers.

"Trust can get you hurt," you agree. She waits for you to continue but there’s no great tale that you can think of to share. You see Clarke’s story – her spirit – in a hundred little pieces. Her jaw set against fear, her skin reflecting candlelight, her determination in learning how to ride a horse. The freckle on her lip, the way she says Anya’s name just so, the songs she hums without realising, the fact she still cannot swim, and that she wanted you to teach her how. The way that she saw you and saw through you like nobody else, and the way she wouldn’t let go of your hand.

There’s a hundred little things that you love about her but only one story to share. "She tore down a mountain for love," you say through a terrible laugh.

You see Clarke glance at you over her drink and you know that one day she will destroy you.

When, a few minutes later, Elise holds Clarke’s jaw in both hands you grip the edge of your table so hard that your knuckles turn white. Clarke kisses her back and the table creaks before you let go of the timber.

You turn back to the girl leaning into your side. Your breath feels hot and sharp in your throat as you say, "I’m sorry." You tell her you have to leave and kiss her goodbye.

She’s disappointed but you know it’s for the best. She’s too sweet for you and the game you’re playing across the crowded bar.

You hand her the last of your coins. "You should go sit with the group on the other side of this room." You point but don’t look. "You might be surprised at who you’ll meet."

//

The night air is cooler when you stumble out the door and you’re glad. The freshness clears some of the fog so you can look up at the stars without falling. You start off toward the forrest thinking of the hills a couple hours walk away. You could get close to the stars before dawn.

"You’re an idiot." Clarke’s call halts your steps.

You let out a chuckle. "Oh Star Child, you are right." You keep walking and she hurries to catch you.

"Where are you going?"

"I would like to see the stars." She catches your hand to make you stop and you tangle your fingers with hers.

You can see her pupils dilate and her breath catch but she doesn’t withdraw her hand. "You can see the stars here," she says tipping her head back a little to indicate the sky above.

The stars are reflected in her eyes. "Yes, I can," you sigh, feeling warmer when looking into her eyes. You call her, "Star Child," and long to thread your own tokens into her hair.

"Don’t," she warns. You frown and she explains without prompting. "I’m not a child." Her answer brings back your smile.

You lean in so her arm presses warm against the length of yours. "We are all children." Pulling her in the direction of home instead of the woods you explain, "I am a Woods child. You are the Star Child." You remember she called you an idiot and ask her why.

She chews her lip as if she doesn’t want to say, or maybe doesn’t know how to express the answer. She’s confused and sad and the darkness returns to her edges.

  
//

She holds your hand until the hallway between your two rooms. It’s so dark that you feel her as much as see her but then she opens her door and the moon lights her face. She holds your gaze as she passes through and you follow without thought. You always follow. She sits on the edge of her bed to unlace her boots and you do the same, your elbows knock and she glances at you but says nothing.

There’s something there at the corner of her lips like a smile. _A hidden kiss_ you think as a story-book moon lights her hair silver. She pads in bare feet to close the doors to her balcony and keep out the cold. When she turns back her breath catches and you wonder what she sees. You can feel the half smile her careful steps brought you and remember Reyen had blushed at your smile too.

Clarke pulls back her blankets then shucks off her pants before slipping into bed and after a moments hesitation you do the same. She’s lying flat on her back and you risk moving in close enough to lay your hand on her stomach. She doesn’t move, she sighs and her eyes flutter shut. No other part of you touches her but there’s comfort in small intimacies.

You examine her profile, every pore and blemish in the dark. There’s an ache in your chest that feels ocean vast and the tide of that ocean is pulled by Clarke alone. You can’t think of how your heart must be drowning. You slip your hand under her shirt to hold the warmth of her skin and think she’s also the only thing keeping you afloat.

Her eyes open and meet yours like she knew you were watching her. "I know what I want." Her voice is strong, sure.

Your hand flinches against her stomach. "I won’t—" you start but she cuts you off.

"I know." She turns under your hand to look at you straight on. "I need a mark. For Emmerson." She points to her shoulder and you imagine the scar maker pressing his brand into her skin.

Your answer is instant. "No. You have too many scars."

She glares at you because her scars are not your business. "Then for three hundred of your men." She shifts in closer to you, her thighs against your thighs.

"No," you iterate, taking a hold of her right hand with yours. You won’t say no to everything, you just hope she’ll ask for something that won’t hurt or kill her. "Those men are not yours to claim."

She’s persistent. "For two hundred and seventy five innocents in the mountain."

You want to laugh. "None of them were innocent."

She laughs for you, cold and without humour. "Maya said that."

You try and think of a sky person by that name. "Maya?" you ask stroking idle fingers up along her stomach and over her hip. Her skin quivers but she doesn’t pull away.

Clarke frowns though. "Maya helped us, from inside."

You remember now. She aided Bellamy through the Mountain. But, "She knowingly used my people’s blood before aiding us. By her own words she wasn’t innocent. Or absolved by her actions."

Clarke's fingertips play over the palm of your hand. "So, knowing is guilt?" Her hands are strong, her arms threaded with tough muscle.

Your fingertips measure the distances between her hips and her navel and you are distracted by the fall of Clarke’s lashes against her cheek. You remember her question when she opens her eyes to pin you with a glare. "Ignorance isn’t always innocence but yes, in this case, knowing is guilt. They knew what their healers’ methods involved and they did nothing to stop it."

She swallows against whatever feelings your wandering fingers are causing. "The twenty three children I killed knew nothing."

They were innocent. She can see the concession in your eyes and her morbid triumph burns so bright you have to turn away. You think it might be a sickness, this kind of longing for blame. Would twenty three scars absolve her of their deaths? Would hundreds of scars absolve you of the lives that you’ve taken?

You can feel more scars higher on her abdomen as glossy ridges under your thumb. Your fingertips slide to the safety of her hips and you promise to discuss her marks in the morning. She yawns through a nod and you have to look away once again. The sweet innocence still within her threatens to break you; she curls deeper into your side so you’re sharing one pillow and a swell of exhaustion rises to smother your pain instead. She begins to snore through light breaths and you fall into sleep with the slope of her belly beneath your palm.

  
//

Clarke is the one to push you from bed and into her bathing room. Your head is aching and so must Clarke’s but she isn’t forcing you away from her so you do as directed. Once you’re clean you dress in your soft farm clothes, hoping for one more day away from your duties. Clarke slips into a light dress and you have to swallow past a lump in your throat at the sight of her. She’s pretty, you decide as she attempts to smooth out her hair with her fingers in front of the mirror. She’s beautiful.

You hold your breath to make sure your lip doesn’t quiver when you reach out and pull her hands from her hair. She still flinches a little from your touch, but the movement is less pronounced than before. And her breathing is steadier than yours as she allows you to untangle her wet hair. You smile and think you can see that hidden kiss at the corner of her lips again. There’s a dragonfly clasp in a basket under the mirror and you lift it to compare the colour of its wings to her eyes. She looks past it, to you, and nods.

You hold the clasp between your teeth and push your fingers through her drying hair. Her eyes flutter closed and you keep your hands moving so you don’t kiss her by mistake. You twist locks of her hair around your fingers and pull them into braids with the dragonfly clasp holding everything in place at the back.

When you’re finished. your hands fall to her shoulders. Her chin dips toward one of your hands and you almost feel the intent of her lips before her jaw clenches and she forces her gaze to the mirror. She smiles at what she sees there and then she smiles at you. There’s a true lightness in her eyes, and that tiny coin flips over in your belly at the sight. Best of all, when you give into weakness and press a kiss to her temple, she doesn’t flinch.

//

  
Clarke pulls you through the markets and you keep hold of her hand though you know where she’s going, though you know that you shouldn’t. She orders you both breakfast in broken Trigedasleng and when the fruit seller corrects her phrasing with a gentle smile, Clarke thanks her. She passes you a bowl of fruit and keeps one of her own but still waits expectant with a spoon in her hand.

You pretend to ignore her, and she looks so disappointed that you can’t help but laugh once you hold the bowl out for her. She picks out all the mango but for one little piece and then digs into her own serve as well. The way she licks the juice from her fingers is painful to watch. You have to wonder if she’s teasing you on purpose. You almost hope that she is and and think you might both still be drunk.

  
She drags you away from the markets soon after and prompts you to guide her the rest of the way. You drag your feet and pretend to get lost, she jostles your shoulder and trips you up so you have to hold her for balance and you both almost fall.

You know you’ve already fallen and just haven’t met the ground yet.

You walk in ragged circles through the narrow streets getting closer to your destination but delaying her for as long as you can. Clarke doesn’t look like she hates you anymore but she is impatient and you can’t turn back now. You can smell the smoke of smith fires before you can see them and Clarke hurries ahead far too eager for pain.

  
There’s no warriors there today. You both watch the smith with his furnace and you think he’s mending horseshoes. He looks up from his work but you nod for him to continue. He seems prepared to until he spots Clarke looking over the tools on the wall. He looks her up and down, sees the gold of her hair twisted in warriors braids, sees the scars across her arms and maybe something in the twist of her lips. He knows just by looking why she’s here.

"Amahn," His shout into the shadows behind him make you jump.

Clarke jumps as well but the smith ignores you both, returning to his work as a tall older woman appears from the back of the workshop. Her weathered face is covered in soot-black but her hands are clean and she has the lean muscle of a warrior not long retired. She looks at Clarke and sees her as the smith had.

  
You follow Clarke and Amahn to the scarring room. It is clean of dirt or smoke, kept sterile to avoid infection in recovering soldiers. Amahn asks Clarke if she knows what the scars mean and Clarke has to admit that she knows very little. Amahn explains so you don’t have to, and you walk away while she does.

In the corner is the scarring table, long and wide enough for a warrior to lay down on with their face pressed into the gap at one end. There are leather straps fixed underneath to hold onto. You remember the feel of leather in your hands the last time you went under the brand. A line for each person you killed in the last war against the mountain men. There were four including Gustus before the battle, three more from that night on the mountain.

You flinch when a gentle hand falls on your shoulder. Clarke draws her hand back as if burned and you hate your raw nerves in that moment. Clarke looks less eager than before and you can see Amahn heating up her tools.

"A mark for Emmerson," she says and she isn’t asking permission but you nod anyway. "The sniper. Atom," she continues, her voice shaking over her words. "There was a – a Trikru warrior. And Dante Wallace. And Finn." She swallows and you know there’s more. "One for Wells. One for Jake."

You don’t know about Wells or Jake but her hands are shaking and you know she understands what this means. The burdens she carries will not be lessened by marking these lives on her flesh. The scars are not absolution. "You claim these marks as your bounty?" The air of ceremony is unavoidable now.

You ask in her language but she answers in yours. "Yes, Heda. I will."

 

Clarke doesn’t scream. She doesn’t pass out. And she holds your hand until the last.

//

You support her all the way home and she lets you put her into bed. You tell her to lay still and she does while you find the ointments to cleanse her back. Her bandages are piled on the bedside and kneel beside her holding the pot of cream in one hand. Your movement jostles her but you ignore her wince of pain as you know she’ll want you to.

It's slow work. You spread the cream with delicate fingers over the first mark then waiting for Clarke’s breathing to even out. "You’ll have to take care for six weeks not to tear these open again." Six weeks to be sure that she’s healed. You hope she stays with you for so long.

As you start on the second mark she opens her eyes to look up at you. "How number scars do you carry Leksa?" The whole phrase is in Trigeda and close enough to true that you don’t correct her.

"Forty nine," you tell her in English then again in your own tongue. She nods and you wonder if she’s making comparisons. Your forty nine to her eight fresh scars.

"From what—?" She stalls, not knowing the right words and she continues in English. "For how many years?"

You’ve only bathed two of her wounds and it’s a slow process so you decide to indulge her. She should know who you are, what you share with her.

"I was eleven. Anya was seventeen and new to mentoring." You smile at remembering your fierce young mentor smearing mud across your face like warpaint. You tell Clarke the story since it isn’t a long one, of the time that Anya was injured. You stayed with her even though you shouldn’t have, and got separated from your platoon. You thought you knew how to fix her because your mother was a healer.

"Like my Mom," Clarke says surprised.

"Yes, and like you." She doesn’t disagree and you continue. You were only eleven but had more pride than most and thought you could heal Anya yourself then carry her home. All you managed to do was make too much noise and alert an enemy scout to your location. Clarke scoffs a laugh and you can’t help but smile as she winces in pain. The scout was big but young and you were small but agile and smart.

You leave out the part of how you killed him, gouged out his eyes so blood spread across your thumbs, tied a wire around his neck and pulled until he choked. You move on to receiving the scar that’s so faded on your shoulder, and how it seemed to take forever to heal.

"Six weeks is a long time to someone so young," Clarke comments.

"Yes it is." Your hand trembles as you reach to push loose strands of blonde hair back from Clarke’s temple. She allows the touch and you let your fingertips linger over the soft fuzz of hair above her left ear. You trace over her cheekbone and her jaw noticing that both have become more defined in the last year. She’s older now, but she is also young, and you both carry so many scars.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to suicide in this chapter, friends. There's also lots of fluff. 
> 
> All your support means the world to me. Thank you.

_Better not to quench your thirst_

 

Clarke sleeps after you treat the last mark on her shoulder. When she shivers you tuck her into a blanket and feel her cheeks for fever. She seems cool enough but you pick up the book from her bedside and settle into the space beside her anyway.

Clarke isn't asleep after all. "Can you read it to me?" and she turns to look at you.

"Don’t you want to know what it is?" You’ve tried to read the book before but many of the words are as foreign to you as the world they belong to.

"It doesn't matter. I just want—." She closes her eyes. She’s uncomfortable with silence. You think she wants to hear your voice.

You clear your throat and open the page showing Chapter 1. " _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good_ fortune, _must be in want of a wife._ ” Clarke smiles like she recognises the story from just the first line and you read on, sounding out syllables as you go and hoping the words make sense.

  
After a few pages a boy from the kitchen taps on the door with a tray of food for you and Clarke both. You say thanks and ask him to thank his mother too. He nods with a gap tooth smile and tries to look past you to see Clarke. "Ben." You say his name in a warning tone and he jumps, gives a little bow and rushes downstairs.

Your indulgent smile lingers as you return to the bed where Clarke is tracing over the cover of your book. "I've seen the show, and a movie too. But the server holding our classics crashed before I was born so I never got to read it."

Most of her words are unfamiliar but it doesn't matter as you admit you’re not sure what it’s about.

Clarke looks like she might explain until she sees the food you’ve brought over. "Delphi is a saint."

She doesn't want to sit up so you break off pieces of bread and cheese for her to nibble on while you pick at your own sandwich not feeling hungry. "It's difficult to read, you admit. ‘Many of the words I don't understand. These people seem strange to me."

"To me as well," she says, her trigedasleng sounding more and more like your own. "But it's about more than just their story." When you’re done eating you put the tray on a side table and Clarke watches as you stretch out beside her. "Do you have a word for prejudice?" She asks in english. She plumps the pillow up under her head to look at you, her eyes are clear; hunting down Emmerson, and scarring her own skin seems to have cleared some of her darkness away.

"I don't know what this word means," you admit laying on your side.

"You had better keep reading then."

 

Many hours later you help her sit up and she pulls out a book of blank paper with a stick of charcoal from her drawers.

You switch on a light and keep reading aloud, your voice lowering over Mr Darcy’s words. “ _The power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor._ ” You frown at the page resuming your own voice to ask, "Are they really just going to sit around talking about writing letters?"

Clarke laughs and you grin at her.

She’s drawing her own feet in her book, the lines shaky over intricate details. "I guess they didn’t have anything better to do."

"These people are silly," you decide.

Clarke flips over to the next page in her book and puts down her charcoal in favour of a pencil. "Wait til you meet Mr Collins."

When Mr Collins appears you glare at the pages. "He is a silly man."

Clarke just smiles and nods. You continue but stumble on a word with the string of letters which keep holding you up.

Clarke leans over your shoulder to see. "Conscientious," she sounds out the word. "It means he wants to do his job well."

You meet her eyes over your shoulder. She’s so close you can see the topography of her iris, blue and grey in this light. You glance down at her lips but she turns away again. She seems so comfortable with you sometimes but then the moments pass and are lost.

"Keep going," she says and shifts away from you.

You mean to read on, but a voice calls out, "Clarke?" Octavia is downstairs and she calls again.

Clarke startles and stands from the bed, her notebook abandoned. She looks scared, unprepared for whatever emotions this meeting with Octavia could bring her.

"I can tell her to go." You stand as well, raising your hands palms outward. "You don’t have to—"

"Clarke?" The door swings open and bumps against the wall as Octavia rushes through. Octavia is wild, still filthy and worn from her trip from the coast an you place yourself between them without thinking. "I came as soon as I heard," she says.

She looks between you like she doesn’t understand why you’re there and standing between them. Octavia can’t know what lies between you. She never knew about the confessions you shared, or the kisses you stole.

Clarke is breathing heavy behind you and you don’t know what to do. You aren’t Clarke’s keeper, Octavia is her friend and Clarke didn’t ask you to keep her out. But she didn’t know Octavia would be here.

"I’m glad you are well," you try to buy yourself more time.

She looks confused, still watching Clarke and ignoring you. "I knew you couldn’t be dead. Wait until Bellamy hears—"

"No." Clarke’s sharp voice makes you jump and you realise how on edge you’re feeling after the peace of the afternoon.

"But everyone will—"

"No," Clarke insists, her voice cold as it was a few days ago. "You won’t to tell anyone I’m here." Her voice carries a threat.

Octavia laughs. "If you say so, Princess. But only if you come over here and give me a hug, okay?" She holds up her arms and waits for Clarke to approach. After a few long seconds she twitches her fingers in summons. "I don’t bite hard, Clarke. Just ask Raven." Her laugh is awkward, edged with worry.

Clarke takes a step and you move with her automatically.

"It’s okay," she says and you stand still so she can walk around you.

Octavia gives little away. If you didn’t know her so well you might have missed the way her gaze flicks over the space between you, over the hand you raised to catch Clarke if she falls. Octavia looks at you and she sees too much. She doesn’t lower her arms a fraction though and Clarke takes the final steps into her hold.

Octavia pushes her hands around Clarke’s ribs, chin tucking into her neck as Clarke turns into her hair and draws a shaky breath. She might say she’s glad to see Octavia but you can’t be sure.

Octavia squeezes her tighter and you can see tears in her eyes and she says, "Me too."

She pulls her hands up over Clarke’s shoulders and Clarke lets out an agonised cry as gloved hands run over the fresh marks on her shoulder. You rush forward to catch her as she stumbles, but Clarke pushes you away. Flinches from your touch. She breathes in a sharp hiss of pain, her eyes filling with tears.

"Clarke, I’m so sorry, what’s wrong what happened?" Octavia scans her body for injury.

"Nothing, it’s fine." Clarke backs herself against the wall, but Octavia rushes around her.

"What are—? Clarke, are these marks for—." She whirls on you, fierce anger in her eyes as she growls in Trigedasleng. "You let her burn? Does she not have enough scars?" She’s glaring in a way that could see her punished severely. You know she doesn’t care. She thinks you failed to protect someone she loves. "How could you let her do this?" Her words are meant only for you but Clarke’s eyes narrow.

"The marks were my choice," she says for herself in Trigeda.

Octavia whirls around. It could be funny if the situation allowed for humour. "You can–?" she catches up to herself. "Why would you do this to yourself?"

Clarke shrugs her good shoulder and looks away. It’s a question Octavia should know better than to ask. She has enough marks of her own.

"You know Octavia." You allow a note of command to slip into your voice.

"Let me see," she pulls at Clarke’s hip. The gesture is more intimate than you like and more than Clarke can handle.

Clarke looks at you and you nod. "You should go get clean," you say. "Touching the burns in your state will only lead to infection."

Octavia looks stricken. "But–"

"Go, Octavia." Clarke cuts over her words. "I’ll come see you in the morning."

Octavia’s gaze shifts between you both, the bed and the door. "You promise?" She asks Clarke.

Clarke chews at her lip like she’s holding back a lie. "I’ll try."

She’s honest in that moment and you hate that you feel jealous of Octavia. Of how much Clarke trusts her.

  
When Octavia is gone you bandage Clarke’s shoulder as gently as you can though Clarke still cries before you’re done.

 

It’s late and you move to leave but Clarke says your name once and you stop. She doesn’t ask you to stay. You just close the door, she starts to undress and you join her.

As you lay under the blankets with your hand holding her side, fingertips threading through her hair, you allow yourself a foolish moment of hope.

//

Clarke wakes early enough to slip from your arms and watch the sun rise. When you wake properly she is smoking on the balcony and staring into the street.

"They will make you sick," you murmur rubbing sleep from your eyes.

"I know." She blows smoke out into the rising breeze. "But I’ll look hot while it's happening."

"Hot?" you wonder over the word.

"Sexy?" You shake your head and she frowns unused to you not understanding her. "Good for a lay?"

When you still don’t know she shrugs and resumes watching the street. Any positive shift you saw in her yesterday seems to have fled. She's jumpy again, on edge in the worst ways.

"How are you feeling?"

A look reprimands your attempt at small talk and you sigh.

"I would like to go somewhere. Will you come with me?"

"I’m meant to see Octavia."

"Do you wish to see her?"

She flicks away the smouldering remains of whatever she was smoking and moves inside, closing the door behind her. "No."

Not yet.

//

It’s been too long since you wandered in the woods. You can’t remember the last time. It must have been before Clarke arrived.

Indra won’t know where you’ve gone and you hope she’ll forgive your inattention. She deserves better, but in the haze of waking with Clarke, you forgot.

You have a destination in mind and though Clarke walks several paces behind you, she seems content to just follow. She’s lost in her own thoughts and you don’t mind her silent company.

In the bright, cooling air it’s easy to forget the things and people that you shouldn’t forget. Easy to remember the people that are gone, that you should leave behind. As you walk, their faces swim through your thoughts. They always do when in quiet moments. Many were lost long ago, while others still cling warm and wet to your hands and your heart.

Rough bark seems slick under your fingertips where it should crumble and you say their names aloud. There are so many to remember yet some resurface over and over again. Costia, always Costia. Gustus. Tris. Clarke, always Clarke. Anya.

Anya taught you how to send warriors to die, how to watch on without emotion. She taught you how to forget your feelings for the men and women whose names and faces you’d known since childhood. She taught you how to see them as an army, a weapon to be wielded against your enemies.

Anya helped you fight to keep Costia safe, to keep your enemies from even knowing she was yours. And she was there when they brought her head to you, was there when you slaughtered the Ice Queen’s messengers.

And she was gentle in pulling your broken pieces together, when all you’d wanted was to fall apart. She washed the blood from your hands and kissed your brow just as she’d done when you both were young.

Anya’s name breaks around a sob and you stumble, that damn hot wet that's not really there making your hand slip again. Clarke's footsteps have halted far behind you and you’re sorry to have startled her. You turn to call out, to tell her you’re alright, but she’s already standing right behind you.

"Fuck," you shout and stumble again.She raises her brow at your use of her word and you shrug.

She approached you quick and quiet as a spirit, you didn't even hear her. You have to wonder how Emmerson got near enough to cause the cut on her cheek. She sees where you're looking and moves her hand to the hip where a knife used to be.

"He had sensors," she answers the question you've not asked. "And a snare net."

You don't acknowledge her statement any more than she acknowledges your tears, you just nod in the direction you're headed. "Not much further."

You scrub at your cheeks and push away your dark feelings. It's easier to do when she's standing so close.

  
On the edge of your favourite place within a day's walk of Polis, you stand and breath in deep. The pool, carved out and filled by twin waterfalls, is edged by rich greenery, a path leads around the water, beneath the falls. Arcs of rainbow light refract through water spray on all sides.

Clarke stands beside you, her mouth open in a smile so bright that you can’t help but stare. Her eyes shine crystalline blue, and her sun-drenched skin contrasts the now white-blonde of her hair. Clarke is strong and broken and sad, but in this moment she looks just like the girl you dreamed of during the year she was gone.

She catches you staring and her smile disappears.

  
Fifty feet above you the waterfalls flow over a sharp edge. "I’m going up there," you point up to the rocks.

You take a few steps and glance back as she follows, but her eyes are on your boots as if she doesn’t care where you’re going.

The lower stones are an easy scramble and Clarke keeps close. Then stones become boulders, boulders become sheer cliff and the hand holds get harder to find. You feel strong as you climb and relish the effort it takes to pull yourself higher. Clarke slows down behind you, cursing under her breath.

On a ledge near the top you turn around to watch. Her arms are trembling, her fingers gripping to the rock. You’re so used to these climbs it hadn’t occurred to you that Clarke might be terrified by such height. You scramble back down and she glances up at the sound.

"I don’t want any help," she says, her voice shaking.

"Okay." You climb down anyway and point out the best places to hold. She tells you she’s fine but still does as you tell her.

"Stubborn," you mutter and she spares you a scathing look once she’s passed the more difficult section. You smile, enjoying the process of helping her, regardless of how she glares.

She sees your smile, tells you to fuck off, and you discover that those two words make you laugh now. She lets go of one hand to raise her middle finger in your direction. Octavia has explained ‘the finger’ gesture and your smile gets wider as you leave her to climb the easiest part on her own.

Reaching the top of the scramble you push on through dense undergrowth ignoring the snags at your clothes and hair in search of the view from further along the ridge line.

"Lexa?"

You freeze at the panic in Clarke’s voice as she calls for you from the top of the falls out of sight.

You call out as well and retrace your path as she crashes after you. For someone so capable of stealth, she makes a lot of noise as she calls your name out again.

Once she’s in sight you stop, relieved but she keeps moving. She charges through the brush until she can reach out and touch you, can cradle your cheeks in her hands and stare into your eyes as if to make sure that you’re real. Your breath catches, heart already hammering in your chest making your fingertips tingle. She’s drinking you in and running her hands over your cheeks and bare shoulders in a way set to dismantle your self-control.

When you lift your own hand to hold hers she closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath and turns away. She retreats into herself, the careful walls and emotional distance crashing down between you.

She cuts off your apologies with, "It’s fine," but the glance she spares you is hurtful, as if she resents your presence even as she clings to you.

 

Walking on, you find a break in the trees. From this height you can see for days, a blurred edge of wastelands just visible past the ocean of forest.  You’re glad Clarke could be here with you. Sitting on the rocks, feet dangling over the edge you feel calm. Clarke sits down close enough to touch and with the sun warming your skin you feel a small flip in your belly at how perfect this feels.

Winds push through the treetops below and you wonder about the life hidden beneath them.

"I could jump," Clarke says after a few moments calm.

You don’t understand until you see her looking over the edge and your heart sinks. "You could," you admit, knowing better than to challenge her.

"It would be like flying."

For a short time you suppose it would be. You don’t know what to say, or even how to feel.

"Have you ever considered it?" she asks turning from the edge to look at you. "After Costia?"

"After Anya?" The words taste bitter.

She’s digging at your hurts to make you angry but you’re too tired, and too full of adrenalin from climbing to feel the full impact of her words.

You say, "My life is not my own to give or take, Clarke. No more than yours."

"You told me once that a true leader can look her warriors in the eye and ask them to die for her."

"Are you one of my warriors, Clarke?"

She glances away and something like a smirk pulls at her lips though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. You both turn back to the trees, watching birds float above the canopy, hunting for fresh meat. At your feet is an aircraft, red rust pushing through the shell and a tree growing through its centre. As if the earth herself is holding down the craft until her minerals are returned.

You feel the heat of Clarke’s gaze, warmer than the sun on your skin.

"Is my life mine to give or take?" she asks.

You’ve imagined a heroes death for her before and you picture again that final fight, imagine pushing the knife through her heart so the burdens of her people could no longer weigh on her. She’s searching your eyes for her answer and you turn away again, not sure what she’ll see. Her legend would be great. Her people would remember her well.

"No," you say finally. "I don’t think your life is your own."

 

Sweat coats your skin when you reach the bottom of the falls again. Clarke, with her nervous grip on the rocks, is even worse and you guide her around the pool stripping down to your shorts. At a sandy edge, the water is crystal clear and you step in to find the temperature bracing. The water flows down from high mountains where winter settles in early.

Clarke shows none of your caution running past in a blur of pink and tan skin, naked but for the tiniest shorts you have ever seen. You throw your arms up in a vain attempt to protect yourself from her splashes. Laughter erupts from your chest as she gasps and swears at the cold.

"Sky people have more curses than we do," you observe through a chuckle.

She falls under the surface for a moment before scrambling back towards the shore, paddling out like a pup.

"Mother fucker," Clarke swears again then lets out another string of curses at her lack of balance in the flowing water.

You wade in a little deeper, dragging your fingers through the surface.

"Do all your people curse against their mothers like you do?" The question is sincere but she rolls her eyes and you can’t help but tease. "I think your mother is an attractive woman but the sexual acts you mention are not the kind I’d imagine her enjoying."

"Oh my god," Clarke splashes water in your direction, you laugh and splash her right back.

She attempts to drag you in deeper, but you fight back, hands slipping over wet skin as you both scream and laugh. She dips down under your arm to go for your sides. She yelps in pain, pulls back. Holds her arms up and out from her body.

Several of the marks on her shoulder are open and weeping. You let slip a few curses of your own and Clarke smiles through her grimace.

"See. You have plenty of curses, Commander."

"Let me see." You settle your hand on her hip to turn her into the light and she follows your direction.

She watches you over her shoulder. "It’s not too bad. This water might even be good."

"The water, but not the other things." She shouldn’t have followed up the rocks.

She shrugs with her good shoulder and turns around. Your eyes drift down over her body without permission and your face heats in a blush. She has as many scars covering her torso as you’d imagined with one savage pink scar above her belly button, between her lowest ribs. You reach out to trace over the glossy skin wondering if this is a scar you were witness to.

She grabs your hand. "Tickles," she grumbles. Her cheeks are red under a shifting gaze.

She releases your hand and sinks back into the water as the shock of cold wears away and she can bear it. She hisses when she sinks in past her shoulders.

"I want more," she says.

"More of what?" You can think more clearly now that her body is submerged, all the curves and angled planes hidden in refracting light and distanced from your hands.

Her eyes dance over your body as you wade in up to your hips. "More marks.  Tattoos like yours maybe." Her eyes wander over the lace work of ink covering your body. 

You feel as if her gaze could cut right to your bones. "Pain can be an addiction," you caution.

"It’s not about the pain." She frowns over her words. "Sometimes it helps. Pain can give clarity, but there’s more than that."

You sink in up to your neck when her gaze drifts away in thought.

"Violent pain is chaos," you disagree. You have enough battle scars to know.

She looks at you and when her gaze flicks downward again you resist the urge to wrap your arms over your chest beneath the crystal clear water. Clarke looks back up to your eyes then away to refocus her thoughts.

"The marks weren’t about pain, they’re about changing something permanent in myself, and knowing that I’m making that change. I have that control."

"Then control is your addiction. The thing you can’t quit or leave behind." You've wondered about this before.

"Maybe I don’t have that kind of addiction."

The weight of your hair is heavy on your shoulders and you have to work to push it aside. "Everybody has addictions."

"So what’s yours?" Her tone wrapped around that question regains your full attention.

She glances up, you meet her eyes and she knows your answer already.

She is your addiction. You could never quit her.

  
To distract from your burning cheeks, you float onto your back and look up at the sky.

"How do you do that?" Clarke is staring up and down your body as if you’re performing some kind of trick.

"You have to relax," you shrug then swim around in a lazy circle.

"I don’t know how to swim. How could I relax?" She looks so worried, glancing out over the expanse of water.

You wade back to the shallows, kneel in the sand beside her and take her hand without thinking. She’s shivering a little in the water.

"You walked into Indra’s spear," you murmur remembering the scar on her belly. You’d never seen anything quite like it before. Clarke was fearless, desperate and full of love. You wonder if she is as capable of love now as she was then.

She turns her hand absently to thread her fingers through yours. "I couldn’t turn back after walking so far."

You remember her moving alone through your camp. "I knew then that I could not let you die. I had to protect you."

She laughs, meeting your eyes again. "Protect me from myself, I think." Her smile falters at whatever she sees in your eyes – adoration maybe.

Adoration is what you feel. In defiance of any instinct for self-preservation, you love her. The truth bubbles up inside of you, threatens to pour out. 

Before you can say anything foolish she releases your hand again and you remember.

Clarke doesn't love you back.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Let tonight pass us by._

 

Clarke doesn’t love you back but that doesn’t change how you feel. You care for her and hope she wants to be whole again – hope she’ll let you help.

"I can show you." She doesn’t understand so you push off from the sand to drift back into deeper water. "I can teach you how to swim."

Clarke looks unsure. "Or I could just stay in the shallows."

You tread water, watching her. "Our children learn to swim before they can walk, Clarke. You aren’t safe if you are unable to at least keep afloat."

"There’s lots of reasons I’m not safe," she says.

"Come here." There's a hint of command in your voice and she responds by moving closer. "All the way. Until you can only just touch the sand." You keep your hands by your side rather than reach out to her and she does as you ask.

She wades out mimicking the way you move your arms to keep balance. You tell her to watch your feet as well. "I’m kicking to keep afloat."

She doesn’t get it right away but you are patient and refuse to let her give up. You keep backing away and Clarke follows without realising, she’s holding your gaze so intently.

"You’re doing well."

She loses some balance and slips under the water. Her eyes are wide with fright and she kicks off the sand into you, grasping at your shoulders and tangling her legs with yours. You almost sink under her weight before she calms down enough to give you room to tread.

"You did that on purpose," She grumbles wrapping one arm around your neck as the other hand wipes the water from her eyes.

"Yes, I did." You kick out further from the shore, dragging her with you.

"Lexa, no." Clarke looks between your face and the shore. "Go back."

You hold her waist to let her know she’s safe. "You can go back in when I’m sure you will no longer drown."

  
Clarke learns the basics quickly and you’re honest when you say she’s done well but she still scrambles from the water like a creature might chase her and you laugh when you climb out after.

"You’re kind of an asshole," Clarke says settling on the rocks to dry while combing her fingers through her hair.

"I don’t know what that means." You sit down and swat her hands away so you can help fix her hair.

Clarke sighs and lets her hands fall to her thighs. "There. That. You’re demanding."

You work your fingers through her hair loosening knots as you do. "I’m demanding because that is what is expected of me. A commander does not ask permission or make requests. She demands to have what she wants."

"And you always get what you want?" she asks. Her shoulders shift and in the sunlight you can see more scars including one which might have been made by an arrow in her back.

Separating her hair into sections you consider the question, feel echoes of her scars in your own body. "No I don’t."

Clarke’s back goes tense as if your words were meant to chastise her. After a long silence, she turns her head so you can see her profile. "I’m sorry," she says.

Your hands still. "About what?"

"About Anya. I’m sorry."

You go back to untangling her hair. "That was a long time ago."

"I know it doesn’t feel like that long ago to me. Anya was," she lets out an unexpected laugh. "She was awful to me actually."

You smile as you imagine how poorly matched they must have been. "She can be a brutal teacher." Clarke’s hair forms neat braids under your fingers as your heart flows over with memories.

"But she saved my life. And she was important to you." Clarke is tracing over the burn marks on her arm in a gesture you’re starting to recognise. "That day you and I met. When I told you how she died, I didn’t understand that she was so important to you. And I’m sorry, Leksa."

"We’ve both lost people."

She hesitates over her next question. "Do you still push away those feelings?" she asks quietly. "Love is weakness," she repeats your words from another time. "But you loved her."

You don’t know how to answer. Your opinion hasn't changed. Love is weakness, but you loved Anya and you love Clarke all the same. You know there is nothing you could do to escape that. Not now. "I don’t think I can."

"You can’t demand your emotions to leave you?"

She’s teasing and you tug at the hair in your hands. She makes an annoyed sound but then she lets out a light laugh as you twist more of her hair together.

After another few moments she speaks again. "So how do you keep going? If you have no choice but to feel. How do wake up every day and just – be?"

You sigh because you don’t have any answers for her. "I do what I must. I wake every day. And. I can try." You’ve finished her braids but don’t want to stop touching her. She turns back for a clearer answer, but you have nothing to offer so you pick up one of your own dripping braids. "Can you do mine?"

She allows a small smile that pulls at your heart. "I can try," she says and you know she’s not just talking about your hair.

She takes her time to untangle your hair until her fingers smooth over your scalp. Her every touch sends tingles down your spine so strong she must be able to see you shiver. The braids are a tangled mess. You don't mind and neither does she. She laughs at her failure and you're glad that she still can.

  
With sun-dry skin, you dress and start the walk back to Polis. For a long while, Clarke follows without focus, deep in thought with a crease between her brows that you want to smooth away. She glances up and you resist the urge to look away as she slows to a stop. You stand with her, head tilted in question.

She stares at you looking for answers she can’t ask but then shuts her eyes tight.

Finally she says, "Thank you." She nods and lets out a long breath as if it took all her strength to say those two words aloud. She opens her eyes again but stares at her hands, fiddling with her shirt. She can’t say what she wants to while looking at you. "If you hadn't brought me here I would have been stuck in—." She sighs and looks up. Her eyes are autumn sky blue. "Sometimes all I can feel and see is the past – the pain. It loops over and over so I can't see anything else. There are bad days."

You watch her, not wanting to interrupt this insight into her mind.

"You brought me somewhere wonderful," she continues. "So, thank you."

  
At home, Clarke takes off her shirt so you can treat her marks with a poultice. She looks over her shoulder, meets your eyes and in Trigeda she thanks you again. Her voice is utterly sincere and warmer than you've heard it in more than a year.

//

You go with her to find Octavia at the barracks. Indra doesn’t quite keep her annoyance at your lateness in check and she runs Octavia through several more drills than necessary before releasing her second to Clarke’s company.

Indra demands your attention when Octavia and Clarke wander away. She tries to discuss the militia, her plans and your part in it, you nod and reply but your focus is on Clarke. She and Octavia get caught up in remembering one another, Octavia’s hand on Clarke’s arm and both leaning in close. The smile that had come to Clarke’s lips after your morning together persists, returning swiftly if something she remembers causes a frown.

Soon Indra gives up trying to hold your attention and dismisses all her warriors for rest. "They’ve missed one another."

"They have," you agree, hoping jealousy is absent from your voice.

"They are like sisters, I think." She tries to disguise the reassurance in her words as cool fact, but you know her well enough to hear it.

She’s watching them just a close as you are, though her eyes hold to Octavia more that the Skai Prisa and you try to imagine, not for the first time, the girl Indra might have been when she first pledged herself to her Heda.

Clarke’s laugh draws your eyes back to her. She seems happy, though still wary. For all that she and Octavia smile and share their whispers they both stand so tense. They watch the walls and entryways around them, always scanning for a threat. Just as you do – just as Indra does.

Octavia’s hand drifts to her sword as often as it does to her cheek or her hair and you think that she and Indra are not so dissimilar. Indra is so hard, that since childhood you’ve longed for something to materialise – something or someone she could be warm for. You’re sure that she and Octavia could be a gentling influence on one another though neither of them can see it. You aren’t the kind to interfere and even if you were, how can two women so blind to their feelings be made to understand them?

  
Indra shares more news and for a while you are pulled back into Heda duties. It's distraction enough that you think little of Clarke.

"The militia must march," Indra says and you agree that their Heda should be with them. You ignore the way your gut tightens at the thought of leaving Clarke; the choice to stay or go has nothing to do with your own wishes.

When it’s time to go home you look for Clarke to see if she'll come with you. She and Octavia have retreated to a dark corner of the barracks, now so consumed by their conversation that they don’t hear your approach.

Their voices are low and not meant to be heard, but you're feeling selfish and hang back out of sight. You’re weighed down by the need to understand the Star Child and it’s clouding your focus. There’s jealousy as well, you know that, but there's nothing you can do about that just now.

"You haven't said anything." Octavia is pushing Clarke for answers.

"We’ve been talking this whole time," Clarke stalls.

"We’ve talked about me."

Clarke must show no signs of offering up answers because Octavia sighs.

"You won’t talk about this past year? Fine. Can you talk about what's happening right now?"

"Well, as you can see, I’m here. I'm talking to you. What else is there to say?"

"Well gee, how about why? Why polis? Why now? Why the Commander? Are you going to tell me what’s happening with you two?"

Clarke is annoyed. "What's happening between you and Lincoln?"

You know the answer and imagine Octavia might shrug. "Long distance sucked. My training comes first," she says. "It didn't work out. Now stop avoiding the question."

"Stop poking me."

"Answer the question."

There's a short-lived scuffle and Clarke sighs as a thudding sound persists that might be Octavia’s fist hitting Clarke’s arm over and over again.

"I can do this all day, Clarke, so talk."

"Fine. What do you want to know?" You can hear in Clarke’s voice that she’d prefer to do anything more than answer questions. That’s why you ask her so few.

"What's going on between you two?"

"Nothing." Her knee-jerk response makes it sound like she’s hiding something.

"Come on Clarke. She looks at you as if the sun shines out of your ass."

It's such an odd expression that you frown. What could that indicate about the way you look at Clarke?

Whatever it means, Clarke scoffs. "Don't exaggerate."

"Fine, she looks at you like _Princess_ is your actual title rather than a charming pet name. Indra wouldn't tell me anything. But plenty of other people are talking. They say you arrived out of nowhere and you've been staying with her since. So. Why her? Why now?" Her voice is edged with a hurt you understand.

The silence drags long enough you wonder if Clarke won’t answer. "I don't know." Her answer is so quiet you almost don't hear.

There’s a pause before Octavia matches her quiet tone. "Is she keeping you here? Forcing you to stay?"

Clarke’s laugh is genuine. "No. She’s not."

"Then, why? Lexa’s being all gay-disaster around you. She’s easy to read. But is this not all one sided? Do you," she hesitates. "Do you care about her?"

After another long pause Clarke clears her throat and you think you hear her scrubbing her fingers over the shaved part of her scalp. "I think – I think I could."

"You think?" Octavia laughs. "I think your body language is going haywire and telling me a lot of things beyond _I think_. I love the new hair by the way."

"Whatever, Pocahontas."

Octavia groans. "Fuck off, Princess."

Clarke laughs and you know why. You smile too then clear your throat and shuffle your boots as you round the corner. If your expression still makes you a _gay-disaster_  then there’s little you can do about it.

//

Clarke comes home with you not seeing or not caring about the speculative look Octavia gives her.

Sitting on her bed eating left-over stew you try to keep your emotions in check but Clarke doesn’t want you to leave and your resolve tends to crumble in the face of Clarke’s wishes.

"You’re leaving?"

"The militia needs me there or this all could fall apart. They need to see and understand the woods, the road looters must be held accountable." Indra had made it clear that there would be consequences for your continued absence. She is a strong leader, but she is not the Heda, and people talk.

"When would you be leaving?" She sets her bowl aside and you do the same.

"Tomorrow."

Clarke looks shocked, or some other combination of emotions you can’t place. You haven’t forgotten the resentment in her eyes at the top of the waterfall, but she looks at you now like she needs you to stay. "When will you be home?"

Your pulse quicken at her use of the word _home_. "I don’t know." Honesty mixes with the anxiety you see in Clarke’s eyes. The thought of leaving is anathema to you both though your reasons are very different.

You want her.

And right now, she feels that she needs you.

Clarke lies down on her pillows to stare at the ceiling. Maybe she’s looking for the stars. You lie down beside her and she turns onto her side, wincing as the movement pulls the marks on her shoulder. "I don’t want you to go?" She says it like a question.

She knows already how much you want to stay with her. "Indra will ensure we keep an efficient schedule." It takes her confused frown for you to realise that her questions and your answers have been in your language rather than Clarke’s. "Indra likes to move fast," you explain in English.

"Does that mean Okteivia will travel with you?" Her eyes are lit with panic as she continues her question in Trigeda.

Clarke reads her answer and she looks so defeated that you lace your fingers through hers over the covers between you.

"I’ll come with you," she says, squeezing your hand.

"Clarke," you know that’s impossible. "You are not a warrior, you have no place to—"

"As a healer," she says. She’s scrambling for a reason but this one makes you pause.

Everyone knows she’s a healer, it’s a part of her legend. The Destroyer with gentle healing hands. "Maybe," you hesitate. "I will need to speak with Indra, there could be—"

"I thought Heda Leksa doesn’t ask for permission." She’s glaring at you with an expression set to make you tremble.

You always tremble for her. "There could be a healer assigned to the militia already," you finish. "But you may come. If that is what you want, Clarke."

She frowns and you don’t understand why until she looks back up and into your eyes. "Is that what you want?"

//

  
You leave the next morning and Clarke goes with you though she rides far behind with Octavia and the other seconds. Your warriors grant her a respectful distance though some still question her presence among themselves. It is a well-known secret that the Skai Prisa has been staying in your home. You don’t know how her travelling with you now will be received by them or the people of Polis. Indra has kept her peace but you know she’s unhappy with a decision clearly made with your heart and not your head.

In a middle distance between five villages Indra calls for a stop. A day’s journey separates you each Trigeda village and your warriors will patrol the woods in between. Time here will allow them a chance to build essential wilderness experience they could never gain in Polis.

You spend the afternoon patrolling in wide circles from the centre of your sprawling tent village with a group of Indra’s best warriors while Clarke works with Octavia and the other seconds to erect their own tents. An uncomfortable feeling pulls in your chest at the realisation that she will spend her nights with the warriors rather than with you.

Once the sun sets you return to camp, fires are lit and food is shared in plenty with warriors all in high spirits. The bandits that stalk these woods have killed some of your people and your militia is here to either capture them or to make examples of their corpses. Your warriors are glad for the chance to prove themselves.

After a while, the warrior bluster and bravado surrounding the fire pits wears thin. Clarke is enjoying the company of others at a fire not far from yours and since you want nothing more than to join her, you walk away. You wander far from your camp-light deep into surrounding woods.

Stars shine bright this far from Polis, but a canopy of trees blocks your view of the sky. Climbing up past the densest foliage will be easy though, and you find a tall old tree with sturdy branches to scramble up. Far from the ground you settle into the shoulder of a branch, rough bark against your back, a breathtaking expanse of stars above. You reach out just in case they are close enough to touch and your hand appears black against their light.

A movement far below draws your attention to the ground; Clarke picks her way over roots and fallen branches, her blonde hair shining with silvery moonlight. She’s looking for someone and you would rather she not get lost while she searches.

"Would you like to see the stars, Skai Prisa?" You’ve taken to speaking only in Trigedasleng around her so your words are even less filtered than usual and you sound sad without meaning to.

She startles, looking up. "I can see them from here," she says in her strange mixture of English and Trigeda while testing the lowest branches for strength.

High places scare her, and her shoulder needs more time to heal so you don't encourage her to climb, but she swings herself up onto the first branch anyway. She clambers as a child might, clinging close to the trunk and you can't help but smile as she gets higher.

She makes her way toward you slowly, checking each branch and reaching with trembling hands at every level. There’s a good chance she’s braver than most of the soldiers still at the fireside; still, a few branches down, Clarke glances up then away, frustrated that she's still not climbed high as you have. She scowls at her own hands like they’ve betrayed her.

"I am Trigedakru, Clarke. Trying to match my skill in the trees is foolish."

Clarke huffs, refusing to agree but unable to hide her shaking voice as she admits, "I don't think I can look up." You don't understand and she explains, "Up at the stars." Her whole body is trembling.

"What would you like me to do?" Assuming she wants anything from you would be just as foolish as her climbing too high.

Her frown deepens like she's arguing with someone, maybe herself. "Maybe if you could come a bit closer?"

You do as she asks, slipping down the trunk so you're level with her then lower still to a broad, flat-topped branch which won't sway so much with the breeze. "Clarke?" You hold out your hand for her. "Can you let go of that branch? Will you come down here with me?"

She looks at you but catches sight of the ground below and her eyes go wide before snapping closed. "Clarke?" You reach up and dare to stroke her hair in comfort, tucking strands behind her ear. Her eyes open again and you smile, prying her fingers lose from the trunk to guide her onto the branch next to you.

"Oh Kay," Clarke breathes out slow as she sits down and lets her legs hang over the edge. She gasps when a breeze makes the whole tree sway and you sit beside her, straddling the branch with your back to the trunk. She grabs at your hands and you wrap your arms around her middle to pull her in tighter to your chest and murmur soft shushing sounds in her ear.

By infinitesimal measures Clarke relaxes. "Is this something your children learn before they can walk too?"

"Some do," you laugh indulging her want for distraction.

"Did you?" It might be the first time that she has asked after your past, but she still bites back on the words regretting her questions.

You don’t mind, you feel comfortable here, more ready to talk than if alcohol filled your bloodstream instead of just _Clarke,_ stars and forest sounds.

"I have always liked high places. When I was very young, I wanted to fly, to get as close to the stars as I could." You squeeze her tight, your arms expressing more than your words can. "I was always staring up, imagining there were cities high up in the clouds where we couldn’t see them. I thought I could run away if only I could get high enough to reach them." You frown trying to remember the last time you’d shared this with anyone.

Clarke laughs settling against your chest more comfortably, her arms wrapping over yours. "And there I was," she says. "Staring down, drawing pictures of wilderness. I should have realised there were cities hidden under the clouds."

Clarke has a way of making you smile when you’re least prepared. She must be able to feel your grin now pressed against her neck. You think maybe you dreamed of Clarke and she of you but don’t dare to say so aloud.

"Maybe our people were meant to come together," you suggest instead, nose nudging her ear.

"We’re not far from the Ark," she says taking your hand in hers to play with your fingers. There’s another shifting breeze and she nearly breaks your pinky but then relaxes so fast you don’t mind. "What’s left of it will be overhead soon," she breathes out finally.

"How can you tell?"

She tries to explain the mathematics but gives up admitting she doesn’t much understand it herself; she can see constellations that match the position of the Arc at this time of year. "Some of my great-grandparents launched from North America so Dad kept track of when we were overhead. For holidays." She shrugs.

You ask about her father and she answers some of your questions but not all and she doesn’t wonder aloud about your parents at all. After a while, you ask if she is glad to see Octavia. Your heart beats faster, but Clarke remains relaxed.

"I might not have been ready to see my people again, but I guess I knew I might when I came here – when I came to Polis." She pulls a loose thread from her shirt and loops it round and round her finger. "Octavia was never a part of my life on the Ark though. Wasn’t even caught until I’d spent six months in solitary."

"Solitary?" You knew that the first sky people had been in some kind of prison and that Clarke had been among those young criminals, but never wondered why.

"Most of the," she hesitates, trying to think of the right word in your language. "Delinquents," she eventually continues in English. "The delinquents were kept in cells with two or more other people. They were even let out to exercise together. But I knew something the council didn’t want anyone else to know so they kept me separate from anyone else."

"Your mother is on the council now."

Clarke nods, unwrapping the thread from her fingers to loop around your wrist instead. "She was then too, but she agreed with them." She laughs. "She locked me away in a metal box for a year with no human contact and then wonders how I became a monster."

You feel a tingle go down your spine at her words but Clarke doesn’t seem to notice, content with tying and untying knots on your wrist. Her fingers brush your skin.

"You’re not a monster," you remind her. You will always make Clarke remember her humanity. "We were at war." You’ve made this argument before but this time she acknowledges your words.

"We were children," Clarke murmurs letting her head fall back to your shoulder to stare up at the stars again.

"And what are you now?"

"I already told you." A monster, she had said.

"No, I can’t believe that."

Clarke sighs. "Just a girl then. A girl that’s done monstrous things."

"You are not the actions this world has forced you to take. That is the truth." You feel frustrated by her way of thinking and let her know as much.

"You want me to see myself the way you see me?"

"Yes," you say because that is exactly what you want.

"Do you demand it?" She’s teasing so you say yes and she laughs, but the sound is hollow. "Too bad you don’t always get what you demand, Heda."

Holding one another closer, a comfortable silence follows as you watch the slow movement of stars against dark branches. She plays with your hands and accepts the way your lips smooth over her neck, the way your nose bumps into the shell of her ear.

Clarke yawns and it must be late so you stand, gently pulling her up with you. Even with soothing words and soft hands she still clings to your arm, and trembles over every branch she’s coaxed away from. Once she’s back on solid ground Clarke wraps her arms around your shoulders, face tucked into your neck and you hug her tight until she stops trembling.

Once she’s taken her fill of comfort she leans back and you don’t know how to ask her where she’s sleeping without want colouring your voice. The question becomes unnecessary as she takes your hand, guides you through camp skirting the firelight, to pull you into your own tent.

Once in sight of your bed she releases her grip to undress. She climbs in under the covers and when you move to join her she scoots under the blankets until her back is against your front and your arm falls naturally over her side. Your knees tuck into the back of hers and even though you’ll drift through the night until your bodies tangle or untangle, you can’t help but marvel at how perfectly she fits against you right now.

Clarke pulls your hand up to tuck under her chin, fingers laced together and you give in to the urge to kiss her shoulder just above the scars. She lifts your hand out from under her chin and presses her lips to your fingers. Your staccato heart seems determined to escape your ribs and you wonder what to say or do for several long seconds before Clarke’s breathing becomes slow and steady in sleep.

More long breaths reset the natural rhythm of your heart, a sweet murmur at the back of her throat makes you grin and you duck your head to keep in a laugh. She tries to turn over in her sleep, but you hold her hips still, worried that she’ll roll onto the marks and hurt herself. She gives in and settles again, pulling your hand back in under her chin.

"I love you." Your words are low, insubstantial and weak despite the strength of feeling in your chest. "I love you Clarke of the Sky People." You know that it’s pointless to express anything to a sleeping woman, but you’re so flooded with a contented happiness that you keep talking. "If you need to leave then I will support you. But I hope you stay."

You press a kiss to her hair and you know another night with Clarke in your arms can’t happen. Not like this.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Do you really want to be the one to fight  
_

You wake before her. Clarke’s lying on her stomach. Hair curled around one cheek. She’s soft, her lips sweet and gentled by sleep. This is your favorite expression of hers. 

You’ve seen those lips twisted by pain, her eyes haunted by loss. You remember her on the edge of a makeshift camp at midnight with a knife in her hand. The blood of her lover drenching her fingers. 

You’ve seen her scared, remember waiting at the maw of the mountain, both of you ready to die. Too young. Yet old enough to accept the weight of both your peoples across her shoulders. 

That day, you had meant to ask her what the sky people believe happen after death. What would happen to Clarke's soul once her body could no longer contain it. Does Clarke carry a soul burdened with responsibility as you do? You told her she was born to lead. You had thought the same of yourself. 

Her hand is wrapped around your wrist in sleep now, anchoring you down. She needn’t hold you. There’s nowhere you’d rather be. And that’s the trouble. You made a decision once for your people. The more time you spend with her, the more certain you are that you couldn’t make that decision again. If your people needed you to leave her behind, you don’t know that you could. 

Her eyes drift open and her fingers are gone from your wrist. The hard churning in your stomach pulls your decision to the surface. You retreat further from her so you won’t imagine that her finger are twitching to hold yours. You pull away so her thighs no longer brush so easily against you. 

“I think perhaps you should stay with the other warriors tonight.” The words fall out in a jumble and you can’t even look at her. 

“Why?” Even bleary with sleep she challenges you. Demands that you express your meaning aloud. 

Her gaze is clear of the sadness you’ve seen on her bad days. That’s a small relief. She may be disappointed, hate your decision after all the times you’ve held her close and been her comfort, but she will not be broken. You long to take her hand in yours. You want to feel the backs of her fingers absently tickling your wrist. The easy physical comfort that you know will haunt your dreams. 

You forcibly remind yourself that she needs to find her own strength. You can’t become a permanent crutch for her anger and fears. And you don't have the capacity to both be there for her and keep yourself distanced.

“It is inappropriate for you to be—”  
  
“Bullshit.” She spits the word and you can see fear behind it. 

“Yes.” You let out a breath through your nose, frowning because it’s useless to pretend. “I think you know why I can’t keep doing this.” 

She can see how you look at her every day, she acknowledged those glances last night under the cool blanket of stars. You hold a hand over your heart but can’t say the words. You find nerves keep them hidden – now that Clarke’s awake enough to reject you outright. _Cowardice_ , your mind supplies. 

“What if…” Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. She can’t acknowledge any of her own feelings aloud. 

“If you have forgiven…?” You trail off as she does, unsure who it is that Clarke needs to forgive. If you could convince yourself for even a moment that Clarke was finding a strength of her own, you would crumble, invite her into your bed every night for all time. “If you think that you can—” 

“I can’t.” She cuts off your foolishly hopeful words and there’s nothing else to say. 

A lump blocks your throat and your heart falls. 

Gaze falling from hers to your hands, you nod. She pulls away then, slips from the bed and gets dressed. 

You stand as well and her gaze burns over your bare limbs. She hesitates by the doorway, ready to leave. 

“So tonight?” Clarke’s voice isn’t exactly hopeful. 

“I’m sure the Seconds have spare bedding for you.” You can’t look, but you hear her impatient sigh and think she might be angry with you. You can accept that.

“Fine,” she says. 

Moving to the chest at the end of your bed, Clarke starts rifling through your things in a way that should make you uncomfortable but doesn’t. From beneath a pile of your shirts, she pulls out her machete, gun and a belt of knives. The closest things she has to personal effects and she left them in your tent, with your things. They must have been there since you made camp. 

She attaches them to her belt and it’s still her eyes that make her look dangerous. Without a goodbye, she pushes past the pelts over the door and is gone.

**  
**  
Clarke leaves and you fall to your bed again, both hands holding your head, elbows braced against your knees. With dreamlike clarity, you feel certain that if you could remember your past lives, Clarke would be there leading beside you. That must be how Clarke found her way back to you in Polis. 

After a few hopeless minutes, a scratch sounds at the door and stupidly, you hope that it's Clarke returning. 

“Heda?” The voice is Octavia’s. 

The sound of sniffling makes you realize that you’re crying and there are angry frustrated tears on your cheeks. You wipe them away hurriedly, shaking your head free of pointless philosophising. 

“Come in.” You stand before inviting Octavia inside. 

She pushes through the doorway slowly but doesn't glance toward your bed or at anything else that isn’t you. She must have been waiting for Clarke to leave. She knows you’re alone. 

“Is there something you need, Okteivia kom Trikru?” You're deliberately formal with her, knowing she will be able to see the redness around your eyes. 

She doesn’t bother with the same formality. “What are you doing?” 

Nerves and sadness hold back your words. You take a calming breath. “I don't know how to answer that.” 

“I heard what you said.” 

There’s no mistaking her meaning. She heard what you said last night before you went to sleep. Dread makes a pit of your stomach. Of course your confession could not have gone unheard. Experience should have warned you that speaking love aloud would cost you. 

“Then you know as much as anyone.” Including myself, you think. 

Octavia’s gaze falls away and air fills your lungs again. She looks around your tent, at your table scattered with maps and plans, at the bed still warm and smelling of Clarke. You stand in light sleep clothes, hair in a single loose braid; you look like a girl while Octavia, in all black with wrists guarded and her sword secure, is every aspect of a warrior. 

“Are you dressed for any reason, Octavia?” 

She looks you up and down then, making the same comparisons that you make every time Clarke stands by her side. You feel it burn. Jealousy, your mind whispers. 

“Patrol,” she says gesturing vaguely behind her. She’s been awake all night and you can see the bone-deep weariness in her eyes. 

“You should know, I aim to keep my distance from her.” 

She snorts out a disbelieving laugh and you feel more comfortable for her humour. She isn’t looking at you like she should. She looks at you like Anya used to. As if she sees you as just Lexa, instead of Heda. 

Whatever it is she sees in your expression compels her to close the distance between you. She moves so slowly she may not even be aware of it. 

“That’s the truth isn’t it,” she says. 

You nod because you don’t trust your voice with tears so close to the surface. You hate how much you wish Clarke were here, looking at you like Octavia is looking at you now. 

“You understand that I’ll protect her?" she says. 

Resisting a genuine smile you shake your head. “I’m not sure she really needs it anymore.” 

Octavia looks ready to argue so you turn your back on her. You have the right, and you dismiss her, making preparations for a bath. She loiters long enough to see your bare torso as you start removing the last of your clothes. Your thumbs tucked into the waistband of your shorts finally sends Octavia on her way. 

//

  
You throw yourself into training with your warriors, exhausting yourself so sleep falls fast. On some nights Clarke decides your arms are more comfort than the fireside and you bring her back to Octavia. She is hurt by your rejection, her gaze hot enough to test your resolve, but you will not be moved. 

Other nights you argue with yourself. When she crawls in under your blankets, you will yourself to turn away from her. She’s so warm though, and her heartbeat is such a comfort that you move into her body. 

“Leksa, please,” she says and you forget whatever reason you’d had to deny her. You both sleep and your dreams are full of Clarke.   
  
After two nights of Clarke’s absence from the Seconds’ tent, Octavia confronts you again. In your tent, Clarke’s warmth only just gone from beside you, she admonishes you for your weakness. 

She has a passion you can admire though she hides it well. It’s only moments like these you get to see. Lincoln described it to you once and now she’s here in front of you and you understand why he fell so far for her. 

“You promised,” she says, standing too close.   
  
Pretending to misunderstand her is pointless. “Are my feelings your concern?”  
  
Octavia looks into your eyes intently and the moment feels more intimate than it ought to be. “No, but hers are. And she’s a mess.”  
  
Love and fear and regret are too strong, too present for you to think of some reason, some excuse for your weakness. 

Octavia says, “Don't hurt her.” 

You nod, hoping it’s the truth. “I will be better. For her.” 

Octavia sighs then – a deep breath let out over seconds as she watches you. “Why push her away if it’s so hard?”  
  
There’s no way to describe what you felt, keeping her afloat in a pool at the base of twin falls, holding Clarke amongst tree branches under the vast expanse of galaxies. You could tell Octavia about Clarke’s eyes, her voice as she gave over just a little more of herself. You could explain that Clarke is as brave as any warrior you’ve ever met. 

It’s not until the next day that you join Octavia on night patrol to give her an answer. Balanced in a tree sharing a branch with Octavia, you find comfort in the darkness. 

“I want her to look at me as I look at her. I want more than she has available to give.” There’s a tremble in your admission. 

Octavia’s breath hitches in. If she wasn’t so close, you wouldn’t have heard it. 

“You understand?” It’s hard to say what gives Octavia away with her face barely visible in the moonlight. You follow your curiosity to ask, “Is there someone you’ve felt that way for?” 

Her practiced, calm expression falters and your pulse quickens, suddenly nervous for whatever she might say. You don’t know if you’re prepared to connect with your warrior, with Octavia through something so personal. 

“Yes.” Octavia lets the word out with a relieved sigh and a shy laugh. She must never have admitted that out loud to anyone. This feels important. 

There’s a tension between you and your shoulders itch with how uncomfortable that makes you feel. You can’t move away from her so you settle for nudging your shoulder against hers. “I’m afraid my heart belongs to another.” 

Octavia rewards your humour with a dry laugh and you can’t help but smile. 

Her own smile dims gradually and you try to remember anyone you might have seen her with. Someone worthy of her regard. No one comes to mind, and you remind yourself that it’s none of your business anyway. It is comforting though; Octavia understands you in some small way.   
  
//

  
That night when Clarke finds you, you return her to Octavia’s side. Clarke seems almost resigned as Octavia wraps her up and you back away from them. Octavia gives you an acknowledging nod and you turn away only when they’ve disappeared in the dark of their tent.  
  
// 

After more than a week away from Polis, one of your warriors discovers a hidden camp and your days start getting longer. Your hunt for the criminals prowling your roads finds more purpose. You move actively among your warriors and Indra places the youngest girls in your path. She thinks you need a Second. Training someone is a considerable investment of time, energy and focus. A distraction could help, you know and while Indra would never admit to distracting you, you’re grateful all the same. 

While you spend your days in the woods with an alternating crowd of young warriors, Clarke establishes something of a mobile hospital in your camp. She’s been gathering medicinal herbs and even started drying them in long strings hung from the support beams of the tent. You think you’d like to find more jars and calico bags for her growing collection, then shake your head; you’ll wait for Clarke to request the supplies for herself.   
  
A long low whistle pulls you from your thoughts, back to the swaying branches under your feet. Indra’s signal indicates a group approaching of ten or more. Another whistle sounds with an upward lift at the end. This group is armed. The girl crouched next to you is listening intently. 

“Ten with weapons?” Lilith grips her sword nervously. 

You nod but glare at her for the question, too loud among the quiet trees. She’s here with you because she’s shown the most potential. Strong and fast, she’s incredibly skilled with a sword. Surprisingly so. At only fourteen though, she can be foolhardy, forgetful and dangerously impulsive. 

The group is approaching your position which means Indra and her two warriors will have dropped down behind them, stalking their steps. There are twelve in all, men carrying the weapons of warriors. They aren’t warriors though. Many are testing the limits of their belts and few show any sign of particular strength. These are the people you’re looking for. 

No one is sure of their numbers or if there is more than one group. If you can capture them alive today you could get these answers and more. They’re approaching on your right and Octavia is coming along the road from your left. She and another young warrior are dressed in farmer's cloaks, their weapons hidden. You won’t attack these men until you’re sure. Octavia and another young warrior, Frett are the bait. 

As they get closer, you can hear them chattering away. Octavia's affecting her best Trigeda accent. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t matter. The point is to be loud, to appear defenceless and silly. You doubt the thieves will notice her clipped vowels. 

Lilith tenses beside you, Octavia and Frett round the corner, and the armed group quiets noticeably. Octavia stops talking and pulls Fret in closer as if she’s nervous. Neither of them look to the trees. They know they’ve found the right position. 

“Well well,” a gruff voice calls out across the distance and Frett flinches as if startled. 

From your place in the trees you can see that the nervous gesture of her hand has exposed the throwing knives in her belt. 

“Hello,” Frett says, a quiver in her voice. 

The men laugh and you smirk at Lilith. Any doubts about this group’s intentions are gone. 

“What are you doing all alone here girls?” The leader steps forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. The scabbard is dirty and bent at the end as if it holds a blade too small for it. 

Octavia steps in front of Frett as if protecting a younger sister. “We’re meeting our parents not far from here. They’re expecting us soon.” 

The man smirks at the obvious lie, falling for their act. “I don’t think that’s true. In fact I know it isn’t because we’ve been walking on this road since Anchor and that’s a half day away. Which means one thing.” 

“W-what’s that?” Octavia embellishes her performance with a cowering simper. 

Amusement pulls a smile from you. Indra is slinking along the tree line at ground level, two men behind her, swords drawn. 

The man nods at his companions and they all draw their weapons, gradually circling around them. “You’re a long way from home with nobody to protect you. Now. Give us all your belongings and we might send you on your way.” 

“Might?” Frett asks, glancing around the group closing in on them, assessing their strengths. Her voice isn’t quivering anymore. She can hear the threat in his voice just fine, see the rest of them leering, and she’s angry. She’s just after confirmation. 

The man lights his own funeral pyre with a filthy grin, eyes skating over both girls like pieces of meat. He’s closer now, within reach. 

“We’ve been on the road for a long time, pet. We could all use a little night time company.” The hand he reaches out never touches her cheek. 

A dagger slashes at his forearm and he jumps back swearing. Frett doesn’t bother to parry his sword strike, she just dodges the falling blade and slips under his arm. Her short sword pierces his heart and you know he’ll be dead before he hits the ground. 

There’s long moments of confusion as the eleven other criminals take a moment to understand the situation. Two young women alone in the woods but not defenceless. A shout goes up and they launch themselves at your warriors, the two women throwing off their cloaks to reveal their armour and weaponry. 

In the midst of a hoard of armed and dangerous men, Octavia is wild as a storm. You want to keep watching from where you are but they need your help. Overwhelming numbers can break anyone down. 

You drop from your branch, rolling into the landing to find your feet at a run. Lilith falls harder and will have to catch her breath, but you know she’ll be fine. Indra shouts a battle cry as Octavia takes down a man twice her size. The thieves scatter and you know that they’ve lost. You find yourself back to back with Octavia, Indra somewhere to your left and know they never had a chance, really.

**  
**  
// 

When it’s done, Indra clasps Octavia’s shoulder and there’s a look shared between them which is startlingly intimate. The moment is brief then gone. There’s more than enough to keep you occupied and you forget what you saw. 

Indra organises the prisoners’ return leaving you in charge of Frett. One of the thieves had gotten a lucky swing in and she has a lump on her head close to her temple and a gash running from her bottom left rib to her hip. If your warrior is surprised that her Heda bears her weight all the way back to camp, she doesn’t show it. At least not through the pained but determined grimace she’s trying to maintain. 

All of you are covered in cuts and bruises under a layer of dust and grime. Still, you’ve fared better than the bandits now chained and walking some distance behind you. Three of their company were killed in the scuffle. All the survivors are bleeding from minor or substantial wounds. They’re lucky. Indra would have happily executed them all for their crimes. You choose to let them live. 

Frett’s cheeks are pale by the time you reach the healer's tent. Clarke is there working and she frowns when she sees you. You try not to care because Frett needs her help. Clarke drops the bundle of herbs to the desk and rushes to take some of Frett’s weight. The girl isn’t heavy but she’s almost unconscious. 

“How far did she have to walk?” Clarke is already disapproving regardless of distance. 

“A few hours.” 

“I should have been with you. If you were going to attack someone—” 

“We can’t plan when we’ll find them, Clarke.” 

She brushes your hands away. “You could send for me when you do.” 

You step back while she works, staying to watch over your warrior since you’ve brought her this far. Frett is still awake but after shining a light in her eyes and nodding at her responses, Clarke pushes a bottle of something into her hands. The girl is unconscious before it’s empty and Clarke cleans her side then stitches the wound with quick efficient movements. 

More of your warriors follow as she works and start to clean their wounds themselves. You help them and make sure everyone is seen to. Clarke treats the ones that need stitches and she helps distract them with stories as she works. They tease her clumsy words. It’s friendly and she smiles. She's focused and kind and more at peace then you’ve ever seen her. She works and her eyes are so determined, so clear. 

When she catches you watching her though, the clarity falters. 

Clarke bears your regard like a burden. It's the only way you can think of this. Her hunched shoulders, the way she turns away from you. Like that day at the top of a waterfall. She resents your presence. You try to remember that she chose to follow you from Polis. 

The role of Heda keeps your spine straight. "Thank you, for treating them.” Standing only close enough for her to hear you in the busy tent, you want to move closer, to touch her. 

"This is my job." Clarke's voice is brittle as she works, threading a dark cotton through another warriors thigh. 

The cold of her voice floods your chest. "I'm-" 

"Heda." Octavia's voice interrupts yours. 

You’d not known she was even there. The tent full of people had faded, Clarke your only focus. 

"Heda, your presence is requested." Octavia doesn't say anymore and you recognise the exit she’s offering. She glances at Clarke. 

You hope the girl she’s working on won't mind a scar because there is nothing delicate in the way Clarke is pulling together her skin. They're both ignoring you, in fact the warrior may well have just passed out from the pain. 

You want to say something, ask Clarke to come to you later and make a report on the injuries. To come so you can explain yourself in a way she’ll understand. There are no words though and Octavia clears her throat. 

// 

The air is cool on your skin when you follow Octavia outside. She stops after a few yards, both of you knowing, there's no urgent place for you to be. 

"Thank you Okteivia Kom Tri Kru." There’s no reason for your formality. It’s just simpler this way. 

Her brows lift in amusement. "You know, some people just call me O." 

"Some people. Your friends." It's been a long time since you had a nickname. Simply hearing your name without a title attached feels intimate most days. "Are we friends?" You’re proud when there is no shake in your voice. 

Octavia's jaw works as she stares at the ground. No you're not friends. She respects you, may even like you, but she’s not forgotten your betrayal of the Sky people any more than Clarke has. 

A nod, and you turn towards your tent. Those frustrated tears block your throat again, but no one needs to see them fall. Octavia follows and you think she might stop outside, to guard the door and shield you in your moment of weakness. 

She doesn’t stop. She follows you inside, secures the pelts and moves, sure and quick into your space. You can’t back down. Except, she’s looking at you with that familiar easy gaze again. Anya. Costia. The family you’ve not seen in years. You could name in one breath the people who look at you like she does now. 

"Octavia." 

"Yes?" There’s a note of praise in her voice for saying only her name. 

You feel it then, the scared quiet tears burning your eyes. You’re so tired. Every ounce of sadness and frustration threatens to overwhelm you, regardless of your successes that day. The nights you’ve laid sleepless and longing for Clarke’s warmth beside you claim your composure. 

Before you can fully break, warmth skates over your palm. You look down as a shiver runs up your spine; Octavia is tracing her fingertips over your wrist, her hand slips into yours, fingers tight and she pulls you in. 

Overwhelmed is not something you feel often. You’ve been through so much, found comfort in others, in things and places. Always, those moments are of your choosing, by your request. No one just gives you comfort, no one’s tried since Costia. Even then you were young and proud, too stubborn to simply accept what she gave you gladly. 

Acceptance, is your only choice now. Octavia, for all her eagerness to train and learn and show the proper respect, pulls at you. There’s no choice but to fall into her and she winds her hands about your waist without permission or request. You know that you will accept this or she will leave. There’s a chance she knows exactly how much you don’t want to be alone. There’s a chance that she needs the comfort as much as you do. 

Her hard warrior’s body fits somehow softly into yours and she's hugging you. 

She’s shorter than you are and your arms wrap easily around her shoulders, her arms cinched around your middle. You fit well, comfortably and this is easier than it should be. 

You know Octavia perhaps better than most. Still, your understanding is limited to her abilities as a soldier, her loyalty to you and your people. She holds your regard because Indra considers her worthy of it. Yet, somehow this seems natural. Not as dangerous or heartbreaking as your moments with Clarke, but warm. Calm. 

As she holds you close, you think of Clarke and the nights you’ve had together, of long afternoons, swimming, reading and lying close in her bed. Those moments are warm, golden memories cradled precious and immutable in your heart. This moment is calm, simple and as you settle your chin on her shoulder, your cheek against hers, it feels right. 

You don’t know how long you stand like that but at some point you recognise that the lump in your throat, the heat behind your eyes, the urge to cry has passed. The weakness brought on by frustration and anger is gone. Now Octavia is just holding you. 

She’s pressed along the length of you. Her body is firm as you might have expected, her skin where it brushes against yours is warm and soft. Only a few scars marr the surface. 

Her hair is soft against your cheek and you turn your face to press deeper against her neck. Her hold shifts and you match her until you’re gripping each other, your thumb tracing circles at the nape of her neck. You feel like there’s something you should say, but nothing comes to mind. 

As Octavia tucks her chin against your shoulder, you accept the intimacy inherent in the action. Her lips are against the skin of your neck and a shiver runs up your spine, your skin alight. Octavia must feel it because she relaxes her grip a little. She doesn’t let go, just presses her lips more firmly against you. The pressure eases and is unmistakably a kiss as the wet of her lips finds your skin. 

“Okteivia.” You find that your voice, rough as it is, contains an audible shake. 

"Hmm?" Her thumb has drifted to tuck in under the hem of your shirt. Her lips are moving insistently now, distracting. 

"I think-" Your breath stutters in something too close to a gasp. 

Finally her hands and lips stop moving. You’re sure there’s a smirk pressed against your neck but when you find the strength to let her go she steps away, face innocent of humour. 

"Heda?" Her composure is unsettling, and she relents at your glare. "Leksa. Is this such a terrible idea?" 

“I. Don’t know.” You turn your back on her, the admission as intimate as your embrace. Your Captain’s Second should not see you waver. No matter her relationship to the woman you love. 

“Clarke,” is your only answer 

“Is a mess.” Octavia touches your shoulder, asking you to turn around before giving you some distance. “You should know, she’s not a jealous person. When she realises what you mean to her, she’ll be glad that you didn’t spend this whole time wallowing.” 

That logic sounds convoluted and weak but you can’t help smile at the hope deliberately pressed in between her words. You push away that hope. 

“I know about those girls you take home,” she says. “I know you can do casual.” 

You stifle a sigh and drop to your bed. Your imagination hadn’t gotten so far as to what she’s suggesting. Comfort is one thing, but this... “You’re no girl.” 

Octavia’s smirk is deadly and distracting. “I’ll pretend that can’t be taken as an insult.” 

“You’re more than they are.” It’s easy for you to say. She knows that’s what you meant. “But that also makes you off limits.” One of several reasons Octavia is a poor choice for bed companion. 

“So, no sex.” She shrugs as if it makes no difference to her, but you’re learning to read her. 

You want more than anything to negate that statement, to find comfort here in the wild. Among your warriors, with Clarke no longer sharing your bed, your nights have been cold. Lonely. 

You push away the thought. “Clarke needs time to heal, to find her own strength again. But I can’t just – I can’t just break down her walls, then pretend to – I won’t pretend I don’t love her.” 

“And you don’t have to. But neither of us can be any help to her if we don’t take care of ourselves, if we get pulled under by her grief when she’s not ready or able to accept our loving her.” 

You can’t keep the bitterness from your voice. “She accepts you.” 

Octavia shakes her head. “She tolerates me. I know somewhere deep down she does care for me. And even more-so for you. But you said it, you helped break down her walls. Of all the people who love her, she came to you, Lexa. But now she needs to learn how to be herself again, independent of anyone else. You’ve helped her on the path to healing and now you need to let her follow it.” 

You hesitate for longer than your pride likes before shaking your head. “I won’t hurt her. I won’t sneak around with you.” 

Octavia shrugs. “Who’s sneaking? If Clarke wants to know, she will.” 

She’s playing absently with the maps spread across your table. Maps and plans that no Second should be looking at. You know she’s barely seeing them. For all the bravado, she’s nervous for your answers. You may be only a substitute for whoever it is that holds her affections, but your rejection could still hurt her. 

“Fine.” Octavia taps a finger one last time to a map on the table and crosses toward you. 

She stops once she’s close enough to look down at you on the bed, her knees between yours. You swallow, mouth dry. Whether it’s from the nearly fallen tears or from Octavia, you’re not sure. 

You watch your hands to ask. “Do you really? Am I someone that you wanted…” You struggle to ask aloud if she really wants you like that. 

Octavia huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. “You’re the commander. That comes with a certain sex appeal.” You frown and she sighs. “Fine, right. No ‘S’ word.” She leans in slowly. “I can work with that.” She keeps eye contact until the last moment. Her eyes fall and her lips press softly against yours. 

You let it happen. She knows you do and takes full advantage of your compliance dropping her knee on the bed between your thighs. Your hands find her hips, hers hold your cheek and thread into your hair. She’s soft, gentle and the pressure of her mouth is sweet. Lingering. She pulls back, pauses long enough to check your consent then presses in again. Harder now, her hands drifting down your neck to push at your shoulders. 

The furs soften your fall. She leaves room for you to shuffle back and your head finds the pillows before she climbs over you. Her body falls into yours. Legs tangling, breasts soft and distracting, her hips falling so the hard jut of bone finds a place between your thighs, just so. 

It’s been a long time since someone got under your skin so quickly. You’re so turned on you can’t seem to remember any of the reasons that this is a bad idea. 

Still, you notice that your pillows smell like Clarke. You can’t help but compare the way Octavia kisses you to the last time Clarke did the same. It seems only natural and you wonder who Octavia is comparing your kisses to. You hope briefly that it’s not Clarke. 

After another long moment Octavia sighs out of the kiss to look at you. She stays close, her hands toying with your hair. Thoughts and feelings, all of them about Clarke must be clear on your face. 

“It’s a shame,” she murmurs in English. Her natural phrases are heard so rarely now that it’s strange to hear the sharp Skai Kru edges in her voice. 

She makes no promises, and asks nothing of you as she sits up and you do the same. She’s going to walk away. Her smile is small but genuine and she kisses your cheek before pulling away from the bed and leaving without a backward glance. 

“Fuck.” You collapse back on your bed and take a deep calming breath, pressing the heel of your hands to your eyes. The temptation to call her back isn’t too strong to ignore, but it is there. You would settle for getting yourself off on your own but there’s not really time. Indra could be looking for you at any minute.

**  
**  
You take your frustration to training instead and if a few of your warriors walk away limping and nursing sore heads, you can’t seem to care too much. They will heal. You will find a way to forget about impossible sky girls.

 **  
**  
  
You’re sure that’s the end of it, that you’ll both forget about whatever it was you shared. That night however, Clarke’s gaze is cold enough to chill the fire between you, and when you leave for your bed, it’s Octavia that follows you into your tent. There’s no hesitation when she takes your hand now. Her fingers twine with yours and she pulls you in so you have no choice. You lean into her, bodies settling together easy as falling. She holds you and you breath is heavy through unfallen tears.

 **  
**  
  
Later, Octavia guides you to the bed and you pull her down with you. 

“Where did the fire go, Heda?” Octavia’s fingers are tangled in your hair, untying and loosening your braids one by one. 

“The fire?” You think her phrase holds more meaning in English but can’t be sure, not when your mind is so full of Clarke and heartbreak. 

“The passion to lead,” she explains. “It’s what you were born for.” Her words are sure, insistent as if she needs to convince you. Maybe she does. 

“I said that to Clarke once.” Your voice is barely above a murmur though your breathing is more even. 

“And now?” She’s curious and you wonder at the intimacy of the moment. 

“I don’t know.” 

Octavia is deep in thought, her lip slips between her teeth and you resist the fleeting urge to kiss her. 

“You’re mourning,” she says finally, the victory of revelation shining in her eyes. 

“You don’t have to look so pleased with yourself,” you say and she punches your arm lightly. She's pushing your boundaries and you find yourself too tired to push back. “Maybe you’re right,” you admit. Mourning or haunted, you’re not as certain as Octavia seems to be. 

“Mourne after the battle is won.” Octavia says the words firmly, with an air of respect and law 

You smile, recognising Indra’s wisdom. Remembering the look which passed between them after the skirmish, you can’t help but wonder. Is it Indra that holds Octavia’s affections after all? 

She continues before you can follow the thought. “Mourning and acceptance is a part of life. Lincoln taught me that.” 

“And after?” You ask, hoping Lincoln gave her that answer as well. “When does the mourning stop if there’s no new battle to fight? When your fight is over but you live on?” You can’t help but think of Clarke, begging you to kill her. Fresh tears make your voice strained, your breathing laboured. 

Octavia has no answer for you but your own pain is reflected in her eyes. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and you let her pull you into her warm comforting embrace. When she presses her lips against yours, the kiss feels like compassion. 

“Am I doing the right thing?” Your words fall against her lips as you refuse to pull away from her warmth, to even open your eyes. “Is she—” you start the sentence twice more. “Can she heal on her own, or am I hurting her more?” 

“She is strong.” Octavia kisses the assurance against your cheek then your lips before settling her forehead against yours. “We both know that. Give her time.”

 

You let the tears fall this time and she shushes you gently, soft fingers stroking through your hair. Your sobs are silent and you can still pretend that this isn’t real; there’s no sound to give away the depths of your grief. 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come share headcanons and angst with me. Dancetyd on Tumblr.

_ And I said you're better not to light that fire _

 

You wake with the sun feeling disoriented, your body stiff. Your eyes and throat are dry from crying. Trying to roll over you find yourself too tangled with Octavia who grumbles in her sleep. Both of you are still dressed, still wearing the dirt and sweat from a day in the woods. Your skin itches and you're desperate for a bath.

You wonder what Clarke is doing. If she’s found someone to share her nights with. More than anything you want her here in your arms. Octavia is fine for warmth, for comfort. But she's not what you want. You wonder if that's why Octavia chose you. She pushed so hard for you to agree to this – this friendship or consolation. With anyone else, she might have to be careful with her affection, would have to take care not to get too close.

You wonder for not the first time about the girls you've taken home since Clarke disappeared. Had they known how empty your affection was or did they think your smiles and hungry hands were all theirs.

Before the itch of guilt can develop into anything more focused, Octavia rolls into you. Her fingers tuck into your collar, mumbling something about birds in her sleep. Her hands drift down and you stiffen but don't need to push her away. Her hands snap back, eyes open after reaching the hard buckles of your armour.

Pushing away, you both create the distance you need; still close enough to reach out and touch each other if you want.

“Are you still sure?” you ask only once her eyes meet yours.

She looks away from you. Answer enough. “I’ll talk to Clarke. Unless, you would prefer I not.”

You don’t want to hide anything from Clarke. “You said she’s not a jealous person.” You think you know this. When you sat across from her in a crowded bar, each with your own companion for the evening, yours was not a game of jealousy. Wanting and having, yes. Jealousy? You’ve seen no evidence that Clarke would care who you slept with. Friend or not.

“She’s not,” Octavia promises And I’m not here to make things harder. She needs to work out her deal. We all do.”

“Talk to her,” you say. If Clarke asks you to stop spending time with Octavia in this way you will. In a heartbeat.

Octavia nods and you know the same is true for her.

“Who are you waiting for?” You’re too curious in the calm of morning to keep the question to yourself.

Octavia stiffens but doesn't look away. “She's – not available.”

You try not to react, but don't entirely succeed because that admission could narrow things down. The girl or woman could be someone Octavia met on the coast, but you think not. This level of desperate longing doesn’t come from a matter of weeks. You think she must be someone in your militia, or maybe Skai Kru. You feel a sad ache for her. It's been months since Octavia saw anyone from the Ark, longer since she went back there.

Whether the woman she hungers for is unbearably close or painfully distant, it's little wonder Octavia clings to you now. She is not just Trikru by name. She shares your impulsiveness, your penchant for hedonism tempered only by warriors discipline. You were there when things became too much for her and for Lincoln. You remember how hard she fought for him, how devastated she was when they both knew it was over.

“Don't tell Clarke.” Her voice is small, but she needn't worry. You won’t share her secrets.

“Tell Clarke what?”

She chuckles quietly at your joke. “Who knew…” she trails off as if she's not sure she should say what she's thinking.

“You may speak.” Your seriousness draws another laugh from her and you smile.

“I never imagined Heda had a sense of humour.”

“Surest way to a girl’s… heart.” You leer at her and she feins shock for a moment before smacking your arm with a laugh.

You've missed this. Easy companionship is not something you experience often. It makes you miss Anya more than ever, but in that moment, the sadness you’ve been feeling for months is eased, the edges softened with someone close. You regret not reaching out to her sooner, especially after Lincoln.

“Does Clarke know?” Octavia asks and you question her with a look. In English she asks, “Does she know that you moonlight as Commander Smartass?”

There's no spite in her question but you find the answer lodged in your throat. “I, ah.” You try to explain that the words don't come as easily in English. “The only words I can manage quickly are blunt. Too direct, I think.”

“So only charming in one language at a time.” Octavia smiles sympathetically. “At least she's learning?”

You try to smile but know it's not very convincing.

//

Octavia doesn’t come to your tent that night. The next night she does, she pulls you in to hold you close, but doesn't stay. During the day, Clarke is civil, your conversations neither warm nor cold. You throw yourself into training with your warriors, into patrols and scouting trips. Octavia gives you updates sometimes when you patrol or have meals together. You’re sure she holds back most of what she knows. Clarke’s business is not hers to share with you.

“She’s still not told me anything about where she’s been.”

“Do you have any guesses?” You know Clarke is haunted by what happened that night in the mountain, and by decision she made before the war. Her year away though, is still a mystery to you beyond the scars scattered across her body.

“No. And I think she needs to tell someone.”

“Is there anyone else she talks to?” You know she’s formed something of a friendship with the warriors injured in the last skirmish.

“Yes.” Octavia doesn’t elaborate and you’re sure there is something she’s not telling you.

“Good.” There’s little more you can say.

  
  
//

The maps strewn across your table are starting to blur, the lines fading together. You rub your eyes and resolve to spend just a bit more time working. A scratching at your door pulls you away and before you can answer, the pelts separate and Clarke is there. A sigh threatens to fall from you; the sight of her is like a breath of fresh air and you can’t stop your soft smile.

Clarke doesn’t ask permission to enter, she just walks toward you in long confident strides. She’s close now, too close and you can see the crease between her brows where she’s been frowning. You long to smooth out that line.

“Can I help—.”

“I know.” Clarke’s frown deepens, her gaze flickers to the bed. Octavia.

“I would not keep it from you.”

“She’s my friend.”

And she held me first, you think, feeling petulant. Clarke has made it clear that your obvious regard is unwanted. The intimacies you share with Octavia are nothing close to those you would share with Clarke if she ever allowed you the opportunity.  You have nothing to hide. You try to hold firm under her gaze.

Whatever it was Clarke expected when she came here, open honesty wasn’t it.

“Sit,” she says finally.

“Clarke?”

“Sit down. On the bed.” The growl in her voice hides an emotion you can’t name, and you do as she commands. She’s angry with you – among other things – and a measure of regret starts to crawl in your belly.

“Clarke—” she cuts you off with a glare, not allowing you to question what she's feeling.

With your back against the pillows you watch her. Clarke moves to the chest at the foot of your bed and pushes aside your clothes and belongings with confident familiarity. Finally she emerges with a book. Pride and Prejudice with the pages still marked where you left it.

You’re glad for your quick reflexes when she throws it at you, narrowly missing your nose. Apparently you’ll be reading. She collects candles from around your tent, the gathering dark sure to stop your reading before long. Even angry as she is, you’re glad to see her like this. With a purpose, regardless how small, or how odd.

With the candles lit on your bedside, Clarke tugs off her shoes. She arranges your legs where she wants and settles between them, her back to your front. This is the first time she’s come to you for something other than a warm bed since the first time you turned her away. A joyful laugh bubbles up in your chest and you lean your mouth against her good shoulder to smother the sound. She shouldn't hear it when you’re on her right side, but she feels it and tells you to fuck off.

“Am I meant to fuck off or read, Clarke?” Having her so close, you feel giddy.

“Just. Please?” Her voice is earnest. As if you could deny her anything in this moment.

Wrapping your arms around her waist, you hold the book out in front of you both. She settles back, her weight falling warm and soft against you. As you start reading, her breathing slows and her shoulders relax. She turns the pages and helps you through the longer words.

“Mr Collins is treating them like horses,” you say after a while, hating the man more with every page.

Clarke doesn’t disagree. “I think that’s what the writer was getting at. Love is not an option for these women. Or at least, it’s a luxury they can’t afford.”

“Love is a luxury in most times,” you say, thinking aloud. “That shouldn’t stop anyone from trying.”

Clarke hums, turns the page and tells you to keep reading.

“Would you like something to draw with?” You remember the last time you read for her, she was drawing her feet. It’s one of those warm memories, too close to your heart.

Clarke shakes her head, her hand brushing yours as she turns the page. You love these quiet moments. Have missed them more than anything else in your time apart. Clarke shifts to lean more fully into your arms and a hissed breath accompanies the way she flinches in pain.

“What is it?”

She leans away from you and you put the book aside to pull at her arm. She tries to jerk away, but you won’t let her.

“Show me.”

She huffs a frustrated sigh at your demand and pulls her shirt up over her head. You smother your gasp at the sight of her marks. On one side, her burn scars form the familiar patchwork of her skin. On the other side..

“They’re infected.” Despite the hours of reading in English, your words fall back to the comfort of your natural language.

She shrugs with her good shoulder and the movement pulls the taut skin across her back. Clarke repeats the word 'infected' in Trigeda and then English. You thought she would know the word by now.

You sigh and confirm her guess. “You weren’t a healer while you were gone?” You saw how naturally she fell into healing your injured warriors, how fast she's built her store of supplies. 

She gives a one sided shrug. “I helped where I could. Everyone thought I didn’t know the language. I didn't aim to correct them.” Her voice is dark and full of memories.

Her self imposed loneliness, you think, augmented by a language barrier. You make her sit on the edge of your bed and retrieve an antiseptic from your things.

Even with gentle fingers she still flinches at the cool balm you slather onto her skin. She’s holding back tears. Her skin is hot and flushed and you hate that she's let this happen. You feel responsible for her regardless of the steps you’ve both taken to distance yourselves.

“Apply a thin layer of disinfectant.” You enunciate the Trigeda in clear slow syllables.

She repeats after you understanding your words as both lesson and distraction.

“You should avoid vigorous activity.” You smile as she repeats the words with a light chuckle.

There’s silence again while you work and she twitches uncomfortably.

“What are you doing with Octavia?” She’s not asking for details. But she’s curious.

“We’ve found something…” you want to say physical but don’t feel comfortable with the implications. “It’s not emotional.” Still not right. “We’re friends,” you say finally and realise that’s close enough to the truth.

There’s more than that of course. But that’s not what Clarke is asking.

“Clarke, I—” she cuts you off, moves away from your hands and puts her shirt back on.

“I should go.” Her cold glare cuts deep.

That night, Octavia isn’t there to wipe away your tears and it becomes painfully clear how valuable her undemanding comfort is when grief overwhelms you.

//

When your scouts report back that they’ve found a camp of armed men in the woods you call your best rider to run a message back to your camp. These men match the bandits you’ve already captured in look and weaponry. And there are two women held tied and crying in the shade of a poplar tree. The men who survive your attack on their camp will likely follow their fellows back to Polis with a few extra bruises.

When Frett appears you keep your instructions brief. “Take my horse and find Clarke Kom Skai Kru. She must return with you now or not at all.” Clarke asked you to send for her but you won’t lose the whole day. Frett nods and darts away. A shard of regret slides into your belly as you imagine Frett returning with Clarke behind her on your horse, Clarke’s arms around her waist.

You force the thought from your head and return your focus to Indra. If your captain senses your distraction she doesn’t acknowledge it, focusing her own attention on planning the attack. You can’t help but think she and Anya have been right all these years. Love is weakness and jealousy is the penalty for indulging that weakness.

 

Clarke and Frett return on separate horses and you can’t help but feel relieved. You feel calmer already with her standing so near, that is until you see she has her machete on one hip, gun tucked into her belt. **  
**

“I did not call you here to fight, Clarke.” You glare at Frett for allowing Clarke to return armed.

Clarke steps between you and you feel anger rise higher in your chest. “I know you don’t want me to fight, I don’t care. If you outnumber them, I’ll stay out of your way.” She lifts the strap of her bag. “I know what I’m here for.”

“Fine. Find Octavia. She can arrange some semblance of armour.” You throw one more glare at Frett before walking away.

**  
**

“We may need Wan Heda’s assistance after all.” Lilith is standing by your shoulder in the trees when another group of three men return to camp. Octavia says nothing but you see her flinch.

“Don’t call her that.” You snap because she’s right. You can’t risk losing the time it could take for reinforcements to arrive. Your militia is spread out across miles of forest and the longer you hesitate, the less stable your plans become.

Octavia shifts at your side. You make eye contact but she knows the truth as well as you do.

**  
**

Clarke doesn’t smile when you tell her she can join the fight but she is glad. “Thank you,” she says.

“Be careful. A dead healer is useless to us.” Nerves make you harsh and you don’t wait to see her reaction.

**  
**

The fight is familiar as any other. Men cry, men fall, your warriors are well trained, some wielding their swords like extensions of their own bodies. You drop three bandits at your feet with slashed bellies that they likely won’t survive. The fewer men left to endanger Clarke, the happier you’ll be. You keep her in sight. She’s beautiful in her fury and you wonder who taught her how to fight, how to stalk her opponents and catch them by surprise.

You kick out one man’s knees and swing around to stand behind him, fingers pulling at his hair to expose his throat. Meters from you, Clarke has done the same and she meets your gaze as you hold your blades to each man’s throat. Clarke breathes hard and so do you. There may be a smile at the corner of her lips. You can’t be sure. She stares at you with a hunger rich enough to make your knees tremble. At some invisible signal, you pull your sword and Clarke does the same, the men at your feet lose their throats and their blood in a spray across the dirt.

They fall and Clarke takes a step toward you. The battle is slowing down, more men eager to surrender than to die fighting. You match Clarke’s steps wanting nothing more than to be close to her. Your sword falls loose by your side and the sounds around you recede as your focus narrows to just Clarke.

Everything goes wrong in between heartbeats. Clarke’s eyes go wide. There is a movement close behind you. Something stings your thigh and warmth flows over your knee. Indra pushes you aside and the man responsible for your pain is cut almost in two.

  
As quick as you fall, Clarke is by your side. Her hand wandering over a gash in your thigh as if it is serious. You suppose it might be, the wound seems to be showing bone but you're not sure.  
  
She pushes your grasping hands away. “Don't be so stupid.”  
  
“There's no stupid,” you insist but she could be right considering your mind is going fuzzy with blood loss.  
  
You know it's a deep cut. Clarke tends to the injury as she does for all your warriors, with sure gentle hands. The injury is deep enough that it doesn’t hurt so much as ache. Your body is blocking the pain and it’s easy to concentrate on Clarke. On Clarke’s eyes, her voice, and her hands. When you see her as the individual parts of a whole, it’s easy to imagine you remember her from your past lives.

She’s so strong. She has a power which could balance your own. That is nature's way; every action has its equal and opposite. Some would say your power, your strength should find balance in weakness, but you don’t believe that. You're sure nature holds a greater subtlety.   
  
Clarke is your balance, your equal. When you’re with her, it feels like you’ve found a missing part of yourself.

“I love you so much.” The words tumble out through the haze of pain and you can't take them back.   
  
Her hands still and she's stopped breathing. She's thinking. Deciding what to do. Deciding how to react and you know this won’t go well for you.  
  
“I know,” she says finally. She loops the bandage around your thigh once more and secures the end. “You should try to keep this dry.”  
  
You nod, trying to regain your breath without showing that it was lost. No reaction is the best reaction you could have hoped for. She already knew you love her and she isn't afraid of your feelings like you thought.

She knows and she doesn't care.

Indra is the one to support you toward your horse, to sit behind you and hold the reigns incase you lose consciousness. You can’t help but remember the last time she carried you home, when you asked her if she was tired of picking up after your old soul. When you try to thank her now, she shushes you and you suppose that’s for the best. Your head is so muddled.

//

 

You don’t remember making it back to camp and have to assume that you passed out. The comfort of your own bed is under you, furs covering just your feet with a brazier of coals close by to keep you warm. Clarke is on your other side. She’s kneeling on the floor with her head resting on your blankets.

“Clarke?” You have to clear your throat to say her name, pushing your fingers through the fuzz of hair over her ear. She doesn’t push your hand away as she sits up so you risk taking her hand from the blankets and pulling her into you. She follows your direction until she’s close enough to share your pillow. Your eyes are heavy and fall closed on their own.

“You frighten me,” she says. Her voice is thick with sleep, and drifting like she’s been pulled from dreams. You’re not sure if she’s answering a question or not. “I’m scared.”

You pull yourself back to wakefulness. “I find it hard to believe you’re afraid of anything.”

She frowns and pushes your hair back from your forehead, checking for fever. “You used to frighten me. You’re small. You don't look like you could hurt anyone. But then you give someone this look and they’re terrified – I wouldn’t want to see that look directed at me.”

“I told you I could never—”

“I know.” She lays a soothing hand on your cheek. “But I've seen the reaction. And I've seen what happens to anyone who doesn’t back down. Strong, fast. You’re so precise. You're terrifying.” She’s looking away from you as if at a clear memory. The absence in her gaze, the flicker of light making caverns of her eyes, makes you shiver.

“It's like…” She pauses, searching for a way to explain but you already understand. She saw you throw grown men at her feet today.

“Like I was born to kill.” You finish for her. You’ve heard your people call her Wan Heda as they whisper the same of you. “Do you wish I hadn’t? Those men are responsible for dozens of—”

Clarke shakes her head no, looking up from her fingers. “No. If death has no price then life has no meaning.” She says the old familiar phrase in English then continues in her slow Trigeda. “I can...' She looks away again. The words are there but caught on her tongue. “I can see the life in you. You’re more than death.” She laughs. “You're like fire, like the sun. You're too bright to watch or be close too, so bright that I think I'll burn.”

Her words flow but her meaning is lost to you. You’re not sure if she’s not making sense or if you’ve just lost too much blood.

“But then I looked at a man today the way that you would.” Her gaze returns to yours and there’s a focused understanding in her eyes.

You know what it feels like, seeing a man twice your size quiver for the look of death in your eyes.

“We really are the same aren't we?” Clarke’s voice is barely above a whisper.

You have no answer for her so you open your arms and she tucks herself into your side as you fall back into dreamless sleep.

//

In the morning, you’re not sure if what you remember is real or just dreams. If Clarke is afraid of you, or of her own strength, she doesn’t choose to discuss it with you in the light of day. She checks your stitches, brings you tea to take the edge off your pain, and when she catches you watching her she doesn’t shy away.

Octavia comes to you but she doesn’t stay the night, she leaves and Clarke is the warm presence at your side while you sleep.

//

Three days into your recovery she arrives carrying a cane for you. “So you can keep moving,” she explains. She helps you dress and it feels good to have her close when you leave your tent for the first time.

As you move through camp, you’re annoyed at the slow pace of walking. You’re not used to hobbling like an invalid and Clarke can see your frustration.

“I think the cane works for you,” she says. “Very stately. Like Mr Darcy.” she nudges your shoulder so you join in her light banter.

“You would compare me to the villain.” You’ve only gotten through a small portion of the book with your slow stilted reading.

Clarke laughs. “He’s actually the hero, but you’re not meant to know that yet.”

You feel a foolish thrill, and certainly appreciate the comparison more. “I knew that Whickham couldn’t be trusted.”

“How?” She sounds genuinely curious and you realise this is the first easy conversation you’ve had in a long time.

“He’s too neat,” you explain. “And a hypocrite. Saying he won’t spread slander in the same breath that he tells Elizabeth—”

Clarke’s laugh interupts you and she shakes her head, blonde hair full with sunlight. “Slow down, Leksa. I understood exactly two words and one of them was Elizabeth.”

You got so invested in your explanation that the words got away from you, the Trigeda flowing too fast. “I’m sorry. I forget.”

“It’s okay,” she says and means it wholeheartedly.

You glance at her mouth, entranced by her smile. She touches your arm with gentle fingertips to start you walking again. You hadn’t even realised that you’d stopped. Warriors wander past you on both sides.

You explain again as you walk, in slower simpler terms. “He says one thing then does another.”

“Like you pushing me away and then sleeping with Octavia?” Her words lash out fast as a whip and she looks like she might take them back if she could.

Her words still hurt. You nod toward the trees and ask her to follow.

Once you’re out of sight you settle on a fallen tree, stretching out your sore leg. Clarke doesn’t sit beside you but she stays close, within arms reach.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, I’m just—”

“Jealous?” You ask in english so there can be no misunderstanding.

She glares at you then glances away, worrying her lip between her teeth.

You want her to be okay. “I don’t care for Octavia as I do for…” you feel the hesitation as a physical ache. “For you.” You long to just tell her everything you’re feeling, to tell her in every moment that she is special to you. That she is good and important and loved. You want to share with her all the ways she makes this world better. “Octavia and I chose each other because we have no romantic feelings, Clarke.” You want to take her hand. “She’s…” Again, you trail off because Octavia specifically asked you not to tell.

“She’s in love with somebody else.” Clarke already knew. “And I’m not jealous.”

“Do you know who?” You ask before you can think better of the question.

Clarke shrugs and you sigh, relieved. You don’t want to know anything that Octavia would not tell you herself. “I just know there’s someone,” Clarke says. “She wants someone who’s out of reach. I can see how much it…” she glances at you and swallows her words.

“It hurts,” you finish and she nods, looking down. There’s so much emotion in just the way she folds her hands, the arch in her shoulder. You wish you could kiss the sadness away. You settle for capturing her hand and she lets you guide her to sitting beside you.

“Why do our emotions have to hurt so much?” her voice is raw and choked with tightly held tears.

“Clarke.” You keep her hand held tightly and follow the impulse to push windblown strands of hair behind her ear. She’s taken to wearing her hair up off her neck, but there are still flyaways falling down and framing her face on one side. She’s beautiful and sad and when she meets your eyes you know she’ll see the love you won’t speak aloud again.

She glances down at your lips, her free hand drifting to your knee. You can feel everything in your body reaching for her, your heart large in your chest, the small flip in your belly turned to an excited buzz that spreads to your fingertips. Your palm slides to rest on her cheek and she leans into your touch. You’re afraid to move, to press too hard and shatter this moment. She’s close and calm even with the sadness so present.

Your thumb traces the scar on her cheek. The one Emmerson left her with before she cut his head from his shoulders. She leans in closer, her hand moving further up past your knee, her eyelashes shine with afternoon light, golden against the blue of her eyes. You want to say her name, to ask if she wants this. To ask if she wants you or if she just wants someone to hold her. To kiss her.

Her lips already brush your palm; she nuzzles into your hand like she enjoys the feel of your skin against hers. Her hand drifting up your thigh is a distraction, a minor pull at you focus. She leans closer and your hand drifts from her cheek, brushes the shell of her ear and your fingers thread into her hair. She’s so close and you’re going to kiss her, consequences be damned. Clarke is here now and she wants—

“Ah!” You jump back, letting out a cry of pain as Clarke’s hand presses sharply down on your bandaged thigh. For a moment you worry she jabbed you on purpose, that she panicked at the last minute and you’d failed to notice. Only Clarke is still right there with you, hands fluttering over your thigh and you know it was an accident.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m—”

“It’s okay,” you say through hissed breaths. “I guess I won’t try to kiss you again.” Your jaw snaps shut on the bold words. It’s something Octavia would say. You feel a moment of panic until Clarke laughs.

She sits back and you watch her trying to smother her smile. It’s a lost battle and when she meets your eye, she breaks and laughs again. You smile too because Clarke’s laugh will always make you smile. It’s light and easy and when you both are laughing Clarke throws an arm around your shoulders, letting her head fall against your neck. You wrap your own arms around her waist and this feels natural, easy.

You wonder if this could be enough.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone loves a cuddle.

_ It will take you to the darkest part of the weather _

_  
_

Your stitches get infected despite your best efforts and the new concoction Clarke has given you for the pain fogs your mind. In the calm of your recovery, she asks you to kill her again. You thought she was passed that. Had hoped, but it was a fool’s hope after all. This road you’ve dedicated yourself to will never be smooth.   
  
“How could I do that, Clarke?”  
  
“I heal, I kill, sleep, walk in the woods, kill again. It’s all the same, I feel nothing.” Her voice is flat, her words hollow. A bad day. “I want nothing.” She pins you with a scathing glare. She asks if you love her. At your mute nod, she says, “Then you could just do what I ask. You could give me what I want.”

You can’t and she leaves. You don’t see her again until late the following night.

  


Her eyes are clearer when she comes to you, her hands gentler as she checks the wound and guides you to sitting in your bed so you can drink the healing tea. It tastes different today.

“I found a plant with sweet leaves. I don’t know what you would call it.” She looks nervous as she explains and you know she found this especially for you. She doesn’t say the words, but you can feel her thanks all the same.

A sound from the doorway makes you turn. Octavia hesitates, not expecting to see Clarke still there with you.

“Sorry, I’ll come back.”

Clarke stands. “No. It’s late, I’ll go.”

“No!” You don’t want her going anywhere. Whatever else Clarke put in the drink, the drugs make you weak and loosen your tongue.

Octavia moves to leave, but Clarke catches her. You can’t help but worry, sure they’re both going to leave you. They don’t. Instead, Clarke holds Octavia’s wrist and gently guides her back to your bedside.

“Lie back down,” she orders you.

“So demanding.” Your smirk makes her glare

"Fucking smart-ass," she mutters as you do as she asks.

She slips in beside you and makes you shuffle under the blankets until there’s room enough behind her. Octavia stands awkwardly for further instructions until Clarke tries to pull her down and Octavia resists.

“I don’t think—”

“I don’t care.” Clarke’s voice is harsh, but her gaze is soft. “Please?” she adds, hopeful and sad.

Octavia glances to the closed doorway again before pushing off her belt, weapons, boots and outer clothes to crawl into bed with you both.

“If the camp is attacked during the night, Clarke’s responsible.”

“Noted.” your words are barely a murmur.

Through the haze of Clarke’s numbing tea you think there’s something about this situation that should make you concerned –  beyond Octavia’s orders. Whatever it is, you can’t find the strength to worry. There’s more that you want to say, to do and make Clarke understand. She’s so strong in these moments, even in the hard times when all she wants is to die. She is so very strong. To still be here, to come to you when surely you remind her most strongly of death and hurt.

“You’re astounding,” you slur out.

Clarke tucks in close to you and you meet Octavia’s eye over the top of her head. She lays her hand over Clarke's hip, more comforting than possessive and you tangle your fingers with hers.

“Do you think—” You’re not sure what you want to ask. Blonde hair tickles your nose and you can feel Octavia's pulse under your fingertips. Brushing Clarke's hair aside, your hand lands against hers. She laces her fingers with yours and holds your hand close to her chest.

The three of you are so tangled now, you feel like a child again, dozing with your young cousins on festival nights. The feeling is so familiar you could swear that there’s jasmine on the air, could swear that you hear your mother's voice mingling with other adults close by.

Clarke grumbles, “Stop thinking so damn loud,” and tucks her nose against your shoulder, she’s exhausted and finally she falls asleep. Octavia smiles gently over her shoulder, and you pray that your heart can survive this.  

//

You wake up laid out on your stomach, must have slept like the dead because the blankets have been pushed off and down past your feet in the night without your waking. Clarke’s breath is on your neck, warm in your hair and her hand has crept under the back of your shirt. Beside her, you can hear Octavia’s familiar wheeze. After so many times being punched in the face, she snores in a consistent rhythm unless someone wakes to turn her over.

This – waking tangled and content with them – is something you might get used to. The sun is warm in your tent, morning birds quieting to the day. Happiness in not a feeling that can last, you know. Yet here you are, drowning in contentment; you’re smothered by it.

A shadow moves and throws off the last of your drowsiness. Indra’s belts creek as she moves and your eyes snap open. She’s watching you from just inside the doorway. Knows you’re awake, can see everything; Clarke’s hand pushing further up your shirt, Octavia’s legs tangled through Clarke’s so her toes nudge your calves. You’re sure Octavia’s arm must still be looped over Clarke’s waist since her knuckles are brushing your bare hip.

It’s a small relief that Indra doesn’t look angry or even disappointed. Her expression is smoothed by discipline, but you think there might be amusement there. You can’t help but think of Octavia’s unattainable woman and search for jealousy in Indra’s cool expression. If it’s there, Indra has long learned to hide that emotion. You inwardly curse the immobility caused by your injury. How is Octavia still asleep?

You roll over, Clarke grumbles, Indra shifts in place and Octavia startles awake, falling from the bed in her haste to distance herself. She lands with a thump.

“Fuck. Indra, I’m sorry, I—” Octavia cuts herself off when she sees that her mentor isn’t angry. She awkwardly scans the floor for her pants and slips into them as Clarke finally wakes.

The soft hand withdraws from your skin sending a shiver through you. You turn and want to ask if she’s okay. Clarke rolls her eyes and you see Indra shift in your periphery. Indra’s eyes close for a moment and you’re sure she’s hiding her own exasperated eye roll. If you were anyone else she would laugh and scold you for childish infatuation. As it is, her amusement is barely contained.

Octavia gathers her weapons and moves to slip past Indra but her arm is caught and they share a look bright with meaning. The moment is too quick to read but Indra nods after a moment and Octavia is gone.

Clarke pushes your worried hands from her shoulder and makes you lie back down so she can check your bandage. “Nothing’s moved during the night,” she says as if the three of you were caught in bed together, that you slept together because she was worried for your bandages.

“Thank you, Clarke.” You play along with whatever will make her comfortable and Indra fails to hide the eye roll that provokes. You are weak, the Skai Prisa has too much power over you and Indra knows there’s nothing to be done. You're hopeless in love.

When Clarke makes her exit, Indra doesn’t scold you. She wants to though. After so many years of your foolishness, she must have had her fill. That concept is easier to think about when your head isn’t swimming with alcohol.

“I had thought Clarke Kom Skai Kru found a place among the warriors.”

Indra isn’t asking, but you nod anyway. You won’t insult her intelligence by insisting otherwise. “I thought it was better.”

“Is it?” Her question is personal, not tactical and you long to talk to her, to ask advice and speak with her, not as a Heda to her captain.  She crosses the room to place a cup with herbs and a steaming pot of water on your bedside

“I don’t know,” you admit, pouring hot water over the numbing concoction. Falling asleep with Clarke beside you, waking just the same had kept your mind off the pain. Now you’re awake the throbbing in your thigh has become pronounced.

Sipping the tea, you wonder over an ache in your chest, the nagging feeling of absence, of forgetting something. You realise that an emptiness opens up with Clarke’s absence, one that Octavia’s presence alone – though comforting – could never fill. The only time you feel truly calm and complete is when Clarke is with you.

Had this feeling been there throughout this past year? The exhaustion, the apathy that drove you out to the farms, avoiding responsibility, drowning in sunshine and alcohol?

You pick at your bandages, wondering idly if you should put more clothes on. Sipping your bitter tea you find you can’t be bothered. Thoughts of Clarke drift idly through your mind. Her laugh, her gentle hands, her silent deadly skill with a blade, and the quiet patience she shows as you stumble through the pages of your book.

A smile spreads slow and lazy on your lips as you wonder. Does Clarke spend her days focused only on her work? Does she dwell on her past always or is it only the bad days that have her dwelling on where she has been and what she has done?

Indra lives among your warriors, those men and women that Clarke has taken to spending her time with. She could help answer some of your questions. She’s more detached than Octavia. She could share her observations without betraying any trust.

Your thoughts must be clear on your face because Indra makes a sound that could be a sigh. “Skai Prisa tends to your warriors well. She spends much of her time with Frett since the girl was injured. The rest is spent in the woods, or with her supplies.”

“Frett?” Your tongue feels over large from the tea, your mind foggy. Still, that captures your attention.

Indra lets her sigh fall this time. “Is there something you would like to know, Heda?” She emphasises your title as a gentle reminder.

“No, their business is none of mine.”

A nod and Indra seems satisfied before her expression turns curious. She lets you see it and that is enough to peak your own curiosity. “Octeivia,” she says.

“Yes,” you shrug because your words aren’t flowing as they should. Your cup is empty and you pour more water on the wet herbs. “We found a… common ground.”

Indra relaxes her posture and leans against the centre pole of your tent. She never leans. “Will she be distracted?” She’s asking this question of Lexa, not her Heda. This question is for Octavia’s sake. A distracted warrior is a danger to herself and those around her.

The answer is simple. “No,” you say. “We don’t share that kind of affection.” You frown because that makes your relationship sound so sordid and you want to explain better, but this conversation is already testing Indra’s strict boundaries and the limits of your numbed mind.

Indra remains leaning against the pole and now she crosses her arms, a thing she never does in your presence. She’s watching you as if to assess your intentions with her warrior. You watch her just the same.

“I have no romantic intentions if you’re worried—”

“Your sleeping arrangements are not my concern, Heda.” She snaps back to attention and starts outlining the plans and agendas for the rest of the week. She explains in detail the movements of wider patrols and you sit up, feeling that this is a conversation that requires pants after all.

//

When Clarke comes to check on your bandages again she brings tea and no questions. She doesn’t want to talk about last night and you won’t push her to. When she’s satisfied that you will be okay she tells you to rest, lies down on the bed beside you and asks for you to read to her.

This feels like the wrong side of a slippery slope you’ve been trying to avoid.

“Clarke, I—”

“It’s okay,” she says abruptly. “I don’t need to be here.” She sits up enough to look down into your eyes so you can see the sincerity there. “I want to be here,” she says exactly the words to soothe an anxiety you have only ever voiced with Octavia.

“Octeivia tells you more than she does me.” You sigh and resign yourself to being on the outside edge of this strange triangle.

Clarke shrugs, looking a little apologetic. “I’m good at—I’ve developed a knack for making people talk. I don’t even realise I’m doing it until after.” She feels uncomfortable having such a skill for manipulation regardless of how useful such a skill can be.

“You can be very disarming. Even moreso now than when we met.” Clarke has a way of seeing through your walls and prying loose truths you haven’t even realised yourself. “A quality I can admire.”

Her smile is light with relief when you say nothing more, taking up Pride and Prejudice to find the page where you left off.

  


After an hour of reading, Octavia comes to ask Clarke for her return to medical. You both stand, Octavia smiles in your direction, and Clarke squeezes your hand briefly before they leave together. Flopping back down to your bed, you wince at the jolt of pain in your leg. That’s not the worst thing that’s happening now though. Confusion is the greater distraction and it’s only getting worse.

Friends or lovers. That’s what you’re used to. You’ve not had someone in your life that was both. Not since Costia. And you were so young then, it’s hard to think of her in those times. Falling back against the furs, you press both hands against your eyes.

“Fuck.” You sigh out the curse and laugh. You’re not even sure if what you have with Clarke is anything more than friendship. You need to talk to her but you don’t know how. Nearly your whole life you’ve been training to lead, to make war. Friendships, relationship dynamics leave you all out at sea.

You decide to ignore the questions you can’t answer and bring your cane out to hobble to the training yard. Combat is out of the question, but your throwing knives have never caused so much confusion.

//

Later you arrive at your tent expecting to spend the night alone. Instead, you find candles scattered around your tent, lit and shining. Clarke is bent over Octavia’s braids, concentrating on matching the twisted locks.

“It’s not that hard, Clarke. It’s like plaiting with just an extra couple steps.” They both ignore you in favor of continuing their lesson.

They’re not meant to be here, but you’re glad and they know it. Both of them know too much, you’ve given too much and this is taking advantage. It should bother you how much you don't care. You take your time, watching them as you pull away the pieces of your armour, your sash and put everything away in your chest. It’s a warm night and you don’t hesitate to strip away your clothes and wipe away the black from your eyes.

By the time you sit down on your bed, your back against the pillows, you feel like Lexa again.

Eventually, Octavia looks up. “Are you going to help her or just sit there staring like a creep?”

She’s teasing and she shouldn’t, but Clarke is still smiling and you don’t think she’ll mind if you come closer. Octavia knows that you want to and you take the invitation for what it is. Sliding in next to Clarke, she hands over the braid she was working on and you can see what she’s doing wrong.

Octavia leans back to brush her hand against your knee. “What’s the damage? Is it bad as it seems?”

“It’s worse,” you say. “Honestly, Clarke, how can you be this bad with your hands?”

Clarke mocks affront through a stifled laugh and Octavia pats her knee placatingly.

“Fuck off.” Clarke shoves her hand away, bumps your shoulder hard and you both laugh more than you should.

  


Indra stops being surprised to find your bed is full most mornings.

//

  


You find Clarke sitting in the sun with a group of your warriors, her shirt is off and held against her chest. Frett is sitting on a low stool behind her, her knees bracketing Clarke’s shoulders. They look familiar and comfortable, and you push down a jolt of jealousy. Your growing friendship with Clarke is… Intense as it always has been. But you’re content to keep things the way they are. You won’t do anything that might drive Clarke back to treating you with cold civility. Clarke is not yours.

Frett is holding a short pointed knife by its blade, her other hand resting on Clarke's bare spine. The young warrior freezes when they see you coming, the mischievous smile dropping from her face.  

“Heda,” they all chorus respectfully. Six in all just enjoying each others’ company. You feel the ache of loneliness as you haven’t in some time.

You don't ask what's happening, just limp around to see Clarke’s shoulder for yourself. Beside Frett is a bowl of dark paste. On Clarke's bare shoulder, a row of symbols and two words have been sketched in charcoal ready to be marked permanently into her skin.

“Clarke, what did you ask for?”

Clarke sighs. “Does it matter?”

It matters because you would like to know how severely your warriors need to be punished. “What did you ask for?”

“Nothing. I just want whatever they get. Besides the marks.” Her marks are healing well now. She’s itching for something new.

“Everybody out.” Your growled command brooks no argument and everyone gathers their things to leave. “Frett?” She stops on the edge of running away and you hold out your hand for her knife. She hesitates, then hands it over with a mournful sigh. She won't be getting it back any time soon and she shuffles away with dragging feet.

Clarke glares at you, but there's also relief in her eyes. She was determined but still scared.

“You are an idiot.” You borrow her words to throw back at her because they seem most appropriate.  

“They showed me the drawing,” Clarke protests. “It didn't look so bad.”

“This isn't just a drawing Clarke.” You see the design is sketched out on a scrap of paper for her and reach for it along with the pencil. Four triangles grouped together, a tangle of lines with half Moon shapes, and a string of characters are stacked together. “This is the twelve clans,” you say pointing to the triangles.

“I know,” Clarke says impatiently and taps the page. “And this is the earth. A nature goddess or something.”

“Or something,” you agree. “And these words?”

She shrugs. “Belonging? I don't know, some of their words overlapped so I couldn't catch every one. I just wanted something. But then you showed up. Thanks for scaring them off by the way.” She holds back on the word Bully.

You sigh and turn away from her when she doesn't bother to keep herself covered anymore. Her body isn't on display for you, but you're affected all the same. It feels wrong to look at her like that so you stare at the page instead, only glancing at her if you're sure your gaze will reach her eyes without a detour.

“So what does it mean? What's so terrible? Or are you here to tell me what I can and can't do with my body again?”

You huff a laugh. “I will ink this for you myself if you still want it after you know what it means.” It's only fitting, you think.  

“Then explain,” Clarke says, accepting your challenge.

“This is the twelve clans.” You point to the triangles arranged in a circle pointing to the center. “And this is the earth but it's more than that.” You lift up your own shirt to show the vine twisting up your side and over your ribs to your heart. “The earth and Heda spirit are bound. This is Heda’s symbol. My symbol. With these words.” You point to the row of characters underneath. “They are about belonging. But when written this way…” You struggle to explain without laughing and Clarke can see it.

“What? Leksa, tell me.”

“This would indicate that you are my…” you struggle to explain, you say the word in Trigeda, but she doesn't know it. Then you remember a colourful expression Octavia shared with you many months ago. “This indicates that you are mine but not romantically or even in strong friendship,” You feel your cheeks heat up despite your best efforts. In English you say, “You'd be my bitch?”

You're not sure if the question at the end softens the blow or makes it worse. Clarke looks shocked, then angry then unexpectedly and beautifully, she smiles.

She smiles then she laughs. “Those assholes! Fucking bronwada assholes were hazing me.” She laughs again, big and full and she seems just as startled by the sound as by the feeling. “I'm going to kill them.” She says the words calmly in trigeda, but she's still smiling.

“Well, if it helps,” You say. “I've confiscated Frett’s knife.”

“Oh, so much worse than death,” Clarke says, her sarcasm rich and detailed even over the foreign syllables. She's learning so quickly, and that small coin feeling flips over in your belly again.

“It's a very nice knife,” You say and lift up the handle to show her.

Clarke frowns for a moment before another surprised laugh bubbles up. “You're joking!” She exclaims, her voice full of accusation.

“Often, and in front of children and the elderly. I should be stopped.” The quip falls so fast you're sure she'll miss the words, but her reaction is hardly delayed at all and she laughs again.

You try to calculate your chances of not ruining this moment and think it better not to push your luck. “I should leave you to…” You’re not sure what she might be getting back to so you awkwardly bow your head and turn to leave.

“Wait. You said you would give me the tattoo if I still wanted it.”

“You want I'm The Commanders’ Bitch permanently etched into your skin?”

She stares at you for long enough that you have to focus on not glancing away. Finally, she nods. “Yes.”

You can't decide if you're meant to refuse her. You promised to give her anything she wants if it is within your power to give, and you promised the tattoo. You would never brand her like your warriors had meant to do. You're sure she knows that. She wants to be marked by your hand, but not as your property. You tuck the knife into your belt and head back toward your tent, leaning into the cane Clarke gave you.

She scrambles to run after you. Pulling her shirt back on she shouts, “You promised.”

“Yes.” You don’t slow down.

“So where are you going?”

“I won't be marking your skin with an old paring knife, Clarke.”

She glances at the knife then back to you, realising that you're serious. Really, what did Clarke think such a knife was for?

“I have my own needle set.”

“Oh.” Clarke follows you inside, the flap closing behind her, before she asks, “What needle?”

You hold back a laugh because you suspected Clarke had no idea. You sweep aside your maps and get her to sit on the table. Finding the needle and colour set amongst your things, you hold it out for her to inspect. It's old, the timber box coloured by age and she runs her fingertips over the engravings.

“This has belonged to me for generations,” you explain, lifting the lid to show the row of fine needles, the small pots of ink.  

“Do you remember?”

You glance up, puzzled.

“Your past lives,” she explains.

Looking into clear blue eyes, more familiar now than ever, you think of the clarity you felt, imagining Clarke as returning to you. Clarke. Your equal, your balance.

“Sometimes, it feels like I can.”

Her eyes narrow, seeing you, reading every emotion in your face too easily. Before she can ask you anything more you close the box and put it aside.

“I would like to go somewhere tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

“Are you trying to distract me?” She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“No.” You laugh, shaking your head. “I will give you whatever you want.”

“Good.” Then, “Yes. I will.”

Your smile is shy, the feeling in your chest warm, and you have to clear your throat to continue, fingers playing along the table edge. “Now, what would you really like, Clarke?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Lexa spends the whole time between Clarke's knees...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update to celebrate, you know what. Now that holiday crazy time is over, I should have a better update schedule.

_What's the matter? You hurt yourself._

 

 

 

“What do really want, Clarke?” You’re talking about her tattoo, but since she’s sitting on your table, her knees are either side of your thighs where you’re pressed against the edge. She shuffles close to you.

“Which one was your first?”

The question about your past pulls a fresh smile to your lips. “I’ll show you.” Your first childish scribbles are on your upper thigh and you start unbuckling your belt.

“Wait, fuck!” Clarke laughs. “Just – just draw it, or tell me what it means.” Her embarrassed grimace becomes an obvious leer. “I have seen them all before.”

You blush and pull a blank page toward you. A rough map and calculations are printed in Indra’s messy scrawl. Instructions and notes on performance. Notes to Octavia too, you think, before flipping the page.

With a pencil you sketch out the stars, mimicking the rough lines you know so well.

“I designed this, when I was six.” You hold up your drawing for Clarke to inspect.

She laughs, as you knew she would. Thoughts echo through your head, thoughts about Clarke and all the ways you love her. You suppose you could just say them out loud. I _love you_ is on the tip of your tongue.

“What is so funny, Clarke?” You hold a serious expression as she rolls her eyes.

“This is the worst—” She takes the page and holds it up to face you. “The most awkward – Is this really what they look like?”

You reach for your belt again, but she shakes her head with another laugh. _Love_ echoes in your head.

“Never mind. I believe you.”

She turns the page back to look at your design again and you watch her eyes scan the page. There’s that quirk at the corner of her lips again. A hidden kiss. You look down to keep from saying anything foolish. Between you is the page. Five stars in an uneven row, none of the points equal, all of the lines crooked, some doubled over by an uneven hand. She traces over the drawing gently. Her smile and touch appears almost loving.

You point at one of them, your fingers brushing hers. “I told you about my cities in the clouds.”

“Your cities,” she smiles, meeting your gaze. “You wanted to run away.”

“To the sky. I love the stars as much as the clouds. I would have a skylight in every room of my home if I could. When I was a child, and I saw the warriors with all the drawings on their skin, I wanted my own. I wanted stars.”

She hesitates a moment, examining you, as if looking for the child you once were. “And you drew this?”

You nod and tell her how you carried the drawings around with you everywhere. How over time, your training got harder and harder to face, and you carried your stars as a kind of talisman against injury. “When I started as Anya’s second she was short tempered, I was a difficult child, and refused a difficult challenge. I got a bloody nose and the first scar on my thigh from her knife.”

“She cut you?” Clarke looks shocked then somewhat awed. She shakes her head with a sigh. “Even as a kid she was a fucking bitch.”

“Anya was teaching me that physical pain is not a thing to fear. That pain is temporary.” You trace the outline of a long thin scar on Clarke’s arm. “She dressed the wound herself after. My stars fell out of the clothes I was wearing. First thing she did was tease me about carrying this scrap of paper around for years...”

Clarke smiles as you smile.

“After. She made a deal with me. The stars, for completing the next part of my training.”

Clarke sets the paper aside to trace the tattoo on your upper arm. “Anya was such a big part of your life,” she says. “First tattoo. First scar.”

“First mark,” you aggree.

Something in your expression makes her curious, and you know what she’s going to say before she says it. “First everything?”

Heat rises in your cheeks again, and that’s answer enough for Clarke. “Ours was not the most… typical of first-second relationships,” you admit.

Clarke nods as if she understands the intensity of those years, then her smile turns sad. “You know, nothing can take that away from you,” she says, words full of warmth and meaning. “Those memories… Thank you for sharing them.”

You watch her, curiosity building, _love_ on the tip of your tongue. Curiosity about that girl you met a year ago, about the woman in front of you now grows. You wonder who held that place of love and trust for her.

“Would you honestly have given your life for that boy?”

She looks at you for clarification, the thread which brought out this question. You should sit down, your injured leg is aching, but this moment feels to delicate to interrupt and break.

“The boy, Finn,” you say. “You offered yourself. Would you really have died for him?”

“I meant what I said then. I would have.”

“And now?”

“I was a stupid little girl.” She’s trailing her fingers Idly up your arm. “I thought I was in love.”

“You weren’t?”

“No, I think I was. Now I know that doesn’t mean anything. Love doesn’t protect anybody. Wouldn’t have protected the rest of my people. I suppose I’m more pragmatic now, than I was then.”

“Now you would walk away from the person you love?”

Clarke looks at you and knows what you’re thinking about. The Mountain. Her people.

You hesitate again, try to bite your tongue, but then the words you’ve been keeping inside can't be held back any longer. “I love you Clarke.” The words come out clear and honest.

Clarke closes her eyes. In pain. “Don’t, Lexa.” There’s pleading in her voice, desperation stated clearly in English.

You ignore it. You realise that you have to say this at least once. “I did love you then, but I walked away.”

She nods, looks at you. “I know, please don’t.”

You want to say is again, but then you realise she doesn’t need you to. Not now, in this moment. She’s something like content, calm with you today. Happy to be with you and feel your love even if the words are too much for her.

There are tears in her eyes. She lets you wipe them away, your hands steady, though you feel your body should be quaking, your whole existence feels unstable. Clarke is leaning towards you now, as she hasn't since the day you first kissed her.  

There’s only one thing you want to say. You wish you could have made another choice, that there was another available.

“I know,” she insists, looking into your eyes. She’s crying fully now and you bite your tongue, hold onto the words.

Tears are slipping down your own cheeks as well, your right hand still brushing away her tears, left hand resting on her thigh. Clarke’s fingers twist into the fabric of your shirt.

Together you lean closer. Her forehead rests against yours. “I could have loved him,” she says, her voice shuddering.

“The boy?” Your eyes have fallen closed. You two are alone in the world, in your shared grief.

“No, I—” she hesitates.

You lean back to see her eyes again. So blue behind shimmering tears.

“Mikael,” she says. “His name was Mikael. We travelled together. He was a warrior and then a mercenary and then just a man. We—” Again she chokes off, she looks at you pleadingly. “We hardly had any time together before—” She can’t say the rest, but you can guess. She rubs at her wrists.

“You were captured?”

She nods, thumb rubbing so hard at her scars that you cover her wrists with both your hands.

“You are safe here,” you assure her. You feel as if you’ve said those words to her so many times, and you can only hope that it’s true.

She looks into your eyes. A complex array of emotion flitting by too fast to understand. She longs for something, for someone. She's begging you for forgiveness.

“You're safe.” A promise as much as reassurance.

Her eyes travel over your face, taking you in. She looks at you. Then her gaze settles on your lips and a breath catches in your throat.

“I know,” she says, and finally leans in.

Her breath is warm and you’re frozen, hands caught awkwardly around her wrists. You can’t move and break this moment. She’s leaning into you and you won’t retreat.

You promised to give her anything that was in your power to give. Lately, you have broken this promise. You pushed her away when all she wanted was the comfort of your embrace. Now, she looks at you. She really looks at you, she looks at your lips and she wants you.

Whoever Mikael is, or was, he is not here. You’re here and she is looking at you. She pulls a little at your shirt, and then both her hands loosens to slip around and hold your hips.

“Clarke?” Your stupid mouth lets slip her name.

“Yes?” She doesn’t wait for any reply as she closes the distance, her lips press to yours and you are lost. You press into her for long seconds, break apart, hesitate for just long enough to check she’s okay, long enough for her to pull you back in, for her lips to part over yours.

She tastes like mint, with the faint bitterness of willowbark. She tastes like Clarke, and oh how you’ve dreamt of these moments, of when she would come to you and want you half as much as you want her. Your hand threads into her hair. Her neck warm under your palm as your lips request more of hers.

After long, perfect moments, she leans back.

She asks, “You care about me. You can’t push me away with the rest of your feelings. Why?”

“Because I am weak,” you admit bitterly. “Because I will allow those I love to be in danger if that is their want. I won't decide that their choices are void.” You only stutter a little over the word _love_.

She frowns then. Considers your words with her lip between her teeth. She looks so beautiful and you are so very weak, so very tired of holding back. You lean in again, but her hand on your chest stops you.

“I choose you,” she says. “Today. Maybe tomorrow. That is my choice.”

“And it is your choice to walk away.” You agree, eager to taste her lips again, but she still holds you back.

“And if I make the choice tomorrow to leave and never come back?”

You’re not sure what she’s really asking, and the thought of her leaving forever tightens hard in your gut, leaves you breathless. “I will respect your choices, Clarke.” You know she’ll see the hurt in your eyes, understand how much you want her to stay. “I choose you. You choose me. It’s alltogether a recipe for disaster.”

She sighs and leans back. “You want to make jokes?” she asks.

“And why not?” You smile and her gaze falls back to your lips. “What is the point of living, of anything, if we can’t have fun while it’s happening? Don’t we deserve that?” You repeat the best of her words now. The ones that confirmed the building love you held for her in only a matter of weeks.

She hesitates, a crease forming between her brows. She wants to challenge you, to ask you to prove your hypothesis. But she doesn’t, her decision is clear and finally, her smile matches your own.

“You’re right,” she laughs. “I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.”

At your quizzical expression, she laughs full, long and hard, and you can’t help laughing with her. You feel silly, young, and as you settle into the comfort of holding her, and keeping her close, she kisses you again. Takes you by surprise.

Long, soft, wet, consuming. Her teeth worry at your bottom lip and, as you gasp surprise and want, her hands creep under your shirt. Rough fingers grip your hips, calloused thumbs trace jutting bone. As pleasure rolls up your spine, a tingle spreads. The kind of tingle that comes with a corresponding throb between your legs.

You grip her thighs, run your hands down to catch the back of her knees, to pull her legs around your waist where you want them to be, caught on your hips.

“Stars.” Clarke stops you with a breathy laugh and a hand once again on your chest.

Your pulse is pounding throughout your body, but you let her pull away, open your eyes to look at her. She’s panting slightly, hair and clothes ruffled. Cheeks flushed, she is the picture of a fallen angel, a wanton woman from those books your thirteen year old self loved to read by candlelight.

“Stars?” You ask.

She flattens her hair as she nods. “You promised,” she says and reaches for the box holding your needles.

“I’m the Commander’s bitch?” You’re teasing and she punches your arm.

“I want the stars, asshole.” She’s confident, determined, but you don’t understand.

“What about the warrior’s marks? The real ones.” You’re earnest now, happy to etch the proper symbols for her, to share their story.

“I can get that later. I want this one.” She picks up the page again.

“Just like mine?” You say to be clear.

She runs her hand from your waist, over your hip bone, all the way to grasp the front of your thigh. Another gasp falls from you to her great amusement.

“Why? You said this was the worst thing you've seen.” You don’t understand her. “What is this drawing to you?”

She shrugs, looking anywhere but into your eyes. “I don’t know. I think… I think we are the same, in some ways.”

“A balance,” you murmur your thoughts aloud.

She doesn’t push you to explain what _balance_ means. You can see how she tucks the thought away to examine later.

“And I don’t want to overthink things so much anymore,” she says, cheeks colouring as if she's revealed too much. “I said I wanted what you get for your first tattoo, and this is what you got.”

“My first tattoo wasn’t supposed to be this way. And it was half a punishment. Anya made sure it looked exactly like my drawing. Just like a child’s drawing—”

“Leksa,” she says seriously, cutting you off. “It’s what I want. This is what I want.” The hand still resting on your chest presses forward when she says _this_.

“Okay,” you say thorugh an exhale. Because you promised. And, because you will do anything for her.

With eyes so blue gazing into yours, you want to kiss her, to tell her that you love her. You want to tell her she is brave, and foolish, and impossible, and driving you to distraction. You want to tell her that your body responds with electric intensity every time her skin brushes yours and that you would give up all of the stars, and the cloud city if she asked it of you. Instead, you step away from her. You open up your needles and ink.

She waits and watches until you turn to her again. With and easy smile you say, “Clarke. Take off your pants.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama, declarations, and a little bird shows up to rattle some cages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ah... two and a half months do slip by quite quickly don't they. 
> 
> Thank you so much, everyone for reading and commenting bookmarking and giving kudos while I was away from this story. I appreciate every one so much. Thank you! 
> 
> \- Dancetyd

_Previous Chapter_

_“Leksa,” she says seriously, cutting you off. “It’s what I want. This is what I want.” The hand still resting on your chest presses forward when she says this._

_“Okay,” you say_ thorugh _an exhale. Because you promised. And, because you will do anything for her._

_With eyes so blue gazing into yours, you want to kiss her, to tell her that you love her. You want to tell her she is brave, and foolish, and impossible, and driving you to distraction. You want to tell her that your body responds with electric intensity every time her skin brushes yours and that you would give up all of the stars, and the cloud city if she asked it of you. Instead, you step away from her. You open up your needles and ink._

_She waits and watches until you turn to her again. With an easy smile, you tell her, “Clarke. Take off your pants.”_

* * *

 

_Nobody ever has to find out what's in my mind tonight_

 

Two stars down, Clarke is hissing in pain and gripping at your shoulder. “Ow, ow ow,” she groans.

You pull back, though standing between Clarke’s bare thighs, you’re reluctant to retreat too far. You allow yourself the indulgence of leaning your hip against her knee. She’s beautiful in the golden afternoon light. Her pants have been set aside and she sits on your table with bared legs and curious eyes as you work through her tattoo. If she could only stop twitching away from you, this could go a little quicker and you both could relax.

“I can stop, Clarke. Come back to this another day.”

She glares at you. “I got all my marks in one morning. This is no different.”

You roll your eyes at her stubbornness and thankfully Clarke just laughs. She continues to laugh as you start applying the needle again – laughs and whines and growls in quick succession.

“Fucking, ow.” She’s pouting now and resumes her grip on your shoulder.

You don’t take your hands away from her thigh when you say, “If you don’t let go of me, I will end up smudging you.”

Clarke lets go with another low growl. “Fine. Tell me something. Something to distract me.”

You smile at the demand coming out in Trigedasleng and answer her the same. “I could tell you a story.”

“No war stories,” she says with a glare.

You have to bite your tongue because you were about to start with exactly that. Your thumb traces lazily over her soft skin before you return to your design. “Farming does not exactly make for exciting stories, Clarke.”

Another hiss of pain passes through her gritted teeth and you lean back, gentling your touch for a moment with your hand lingering on her thigh. You meet her eyes and the moment is tense. She worries her lip, brows drawn into a frown; she looks like she would say something to you; like she’s sorting through a dozen different ways to express what she’s feeling.

Suddenly, a voice breaks between you. “Well, that's something I can't unsee.” You both jump as Octavia walks in and flops down on your bed. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be over here, alone. With you, but alone.”

You let out the gust of air you hadn’t dared release before. Clarke’s obvious relief at the interruption is the only thing that stops you shouting at Octavia and throwing her out of your tent. Clarke presses her eyes closed tightly. When she opens them again, the uncertainty from before is gone. She’s pushed down whatever it is she wanted to say.

“Do you need anything, Octavia?” You ask not expecting any real answer. She’s taken to spending time with you or with Clarke, sometimes with you both. You think she needs the distraction and know that Clarke is more relaxed with her here so you don’t mind.

Octavia shrugs. “Act like I’m not here?”

You pretend there’s no question at the end, as you know she’ll want you to do, and return your gaze to Clarke. She looks a little breathless and you realise that your thumb has been trailing patterns over the skin of her inner thigh for some time now.

Clarke takes a deep breath when you stop. “Tell me about Costia,” she says.

A stone drops into your stomach. “I don’t—”

“Please?”

She wanted a distraction. You’re not sure if you can keep your hands from shaking through the tattoo if you talk about Costia, though. You suppose, the design is shaky enough, Clarke will still match you. “What do you want to know?” You ask cautiously.

A hand settles on your wrist, the one holding the needle against Clarke’s skin. Her eyes tell you, _it’s okay._

“Tell me how you met,” she says and her smile makes you smile because she picked the easiest thing for you to talk about.

Behind you, Octavia is now studiously avoiding looking at you. She’s picked up Pride and Prejudice to absently flick through its pages.

Returning your attention to Clarke, you take a deep breath, hoping that this is what Clarke needs, wondering if maybe this is what you need as well.

“I’ve known Costia since we were both children. She was eight and I was six.”

“An older woman,” Clarke teases.

You ignore her. “We didn’t have much to do with one another until I was fourteen. I had left our village, wandered too far and ended up on the coast.”

“A day’s walk,” Clarke muses. You nod and she huffs a laugh. “Determined to run away.”

You nod and finish the next star on her thigh as gently as possible then tell her about your journey. “I showed up faint from hunger and dehydration.” Clarke asks about the meaning of your last word so you repeat it in English, “Thirsty.”

“Always thirsty,” Octavia laughs from the bed.

Clarke glares on your behalf so you don’t worry about turning around. You just concentrate on the next star.

“I was walking along the pier, hoping someone would take pity and offer me water without me having to ask. I was too proud.” Clarke smiles as you hoped she would. You are rounding off the last star now. “Suddenly there was a girl right there, and one I recognised too. Costia had grown so tall and beautiful.”

You’re sure your face will give away the emotion you’re feeling in remembering that moment. “I could swear there was a halo in her hair as she offered me a cup of silty creek water.” You laugh. “She said I looked like a half-starved pup.”

You remember the tiniest details. The smell of salt water on the air, the way Costia’s dark lips curved at the edges, the way her lashes fell across her cheek. “I remembered her name was Costia and I was so excited that she remembered mine too. I didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like then, but I figured it out the first time she took my hand. I knew then that I would never want to let her go.”

There’s tears in your eyes when you finally finish the last star and wipe away the extra ink from her pale skin. You blink thhe tears away as best you can before looking up to find Clarke is staring at you, her eyes full of a soft warmth.

The way she looks at you causes a breath to catch in your throat and fall audibly from your lips. Clarke sees the instant you recognise the look in her eyes, and her expression immediately shutters.

She pushes against you. You react too slowly and she shoves you hard enough that you stumble, taking several steps to correct yourself.  
  
“I’m—” she cuts herself off, no apology falling between you. Not in words anyway. She brushes nervous fingertips through the short fuzz of hair over her ear.

Her expression flits over apology, fear, rage and a blinding brilliant— you can’t tell yourself it’s _love_  . Especially when her expression finally settles and it’s _anger_ writ clear across her features, she slips from the table, pushes past you, and strides across your tent and out the door without a backward glance.

For long stretched out moments, you're staring at the doorway, not sure where your own feelings will settle – sadness, confusion, resentment, or fear of what Clarke is feeling and worse, what she could be thinking. You’re sure Clarke is railing against her own feelings. And you are shaken, your trembling fingers numb on shivering arms. You feel a sob creeping up your throat – frustration and disappointment stinging your eyes. You hold it back, try to hold onto the warmth of your afternoon together, try to hold onto the feel of Clarke’s skin under your hands.

You can’t though. You feel yourself breaking. You feel yourself falling, slipping back into that same dark hurt you’ve been relieved of these past few days. Then. Strong slender arms wrap around your middle. Octavia. She’s pulling you into a firm comforting hug.

“Shh.” Octavia hushes the tears that you can no longer hold back, quiet sobs falling between you. “You’re starting to reach her. You can see that, right? She's breaking through.”

You laugh through the next sob because really that feels like a poor consolation prize for all the times you’ve held back, that you’ve been gentle with her and refused to push her at times others would.

“It’s so hard. I’ve tried so hard.” You say.

Octavia shakes her head but you don’t find out what she would say as you pull her in by the collar and kiss her firmly on the mouth. It isn’t right, it isn’t enough, especially with the way Octavia holds stiff and unresponsive against you. Octavia pulls out of the kiss quickly, settles her hand on the back of your head and you let your chin fall onto her shoulder, let your arms fall around her waist.

 _Clarke owes you nothing_ , you remind yourself firmly. Your basic decency doesn’t grant you ownership over her feelings. Whatever Clarke wants to give you is what you will gladly receive. If that is nothing more than friendship, then you will accept. A dark voice persists, creeping in the back of your mind and whispering words like _owing, mine, deserving_. You push away the words and the voice, the lies of a selfish subconscious.

The taste of leather against your lips is calming in a strange way. You breathe in the smell and try to collect your thoughts. After a deep breath, you return Octavia’s hug properly with a tight squeeze of your own and kiss her cheek. It’s not something that you usually allow yourself to do, but today seems like a reasonable exception.

“Thankyou,” you say.

Octavia stiffens at the thanks and you regret not saying it sooner.

“I’ll go find Clarke,” she says. “See what the hell is going on inside that head of hers.”

Jealousy flares up before you can push it down, before you can remind yourself that this is Octavia. Finally, you nod.

“She’ll need disinfectant,” you say quickly.

The travel chest at the end of your bed has something inside, you’re sure of it and throw your things across the bed in your haste to find it.

“I’m sure she has plenty of—” Octavia tries to tell you that Clarke won’t need it, but you don’t let her, shoving the ointment into her hands.

You press the jar harder, making sure she’s listening. “Clarke needs to put this on the tattoo every few hours. Just a little bit at a time.”

Octavia hesitates. She can see the desperation clinging to the edges of your rationality. You need this. That’s why she takes the ointment, why she gives you one more tight hug and says, “I’ll take care of her.” She hesitates, not quite letting you go as she leans back out of the hug. She waits for you to look up, to meet your eyes before saying. “I’ll be back. Leksa.”

When she’s gone you realise what Octavia meant. Any question as to whether or not Octavia is your friend is gone. Somehow that new knowledge takes your breath away and you have to sit down.

After everything, after all this time. You have a friend.

//

Octavia comes back to your tent the following night.

“Is Clarke?” You can’t finish your question, but you don’t need to.

Octavia shakes her head. “She needs some time.”

It’s not a promise, but it feels like something. “She’s using the disinfectant?”

The smile Octavia gives you is sweet enough to make you uncomfortable. She looks at you like a mother looks at their infant, all doe-eyed and proud. She tells you yes then pulls you by the waist into a loose hug. It’s warm, friendly and familiar, and you settle into the comfort.

“I have a message from Clarke,” she says without letting go.

The breath pulling in through your teeth stutters at the tone of her voice. The same breath falls in a rush when Octavia’s hands move to hold your hips.

“She wants you to know... _Not yet_ ,” she murmurs, leans back to look you in the eye, to be sure you understand – _not yet, but soon_ – and then leans in to lay a gentle barely there kiss against your cheek, her lips just finding the corner of your mouth.

//

When you wake from nightmares that night, you need to see Clarke. You can’t remember the dreams, but you know you were searching for her, had lost her somehow. Now, you throw back your blankets, are met with a fresh burst of cold. Winter is falling in early over the gentle autumn you’ve been experiencing in the woods. It’s too cold to go wandering about in only your sleep clothes so you tug your boots onto bare feet and wrap a shorter bed fur around your shoulders. The second’s tent isn’t so far, you reason.

Out under the stars, you realise your error, but it’s too late to turn back, even if your breath fogs in front of you and the chill makes your thigh ache with every hobbling step, you can’t turn back now. You pass by the warrior working patrol inside camp and he manages to smooth his expression quickly, though not quick enough to stop you seeing his curiosity.

“Commander,” he mutters with a respectful nod.

You spare him a nod as well before rushing on with _Clarke_ filling your thoughts. You want to check on her, to make sure she’s okay. She is not yours, you have no claim on her. But, she is… your friend? Your companion? No, you can’t convince even yourself that your relationship is so simple.

At the entrance to their tent, you pause only long enough to check there are no lights burning, then pull the flaps aside. It’s dark inside. You don’t know what you were expecting. Maybe some fortuitous beam of moonlight landing directly on your sleeping sky princess. _Foolish_ , you scold yourself for such whimsical thoughts.

Pushing inside, you keep close to the wall and employ all of your tracking skills to keep quiet, not disturbing or alerting anyone to your presence. You settle against the wall and wait for your eyes to adjust, for Clarke’s form to be clear.

While you’re waiting, you can’t help but remember how she looked at you, after you shared your story about Costia. You’ve thought about that moment many times, filtered through the details, sifting over and over again for any single explanation, some shred of understanding. There is none.

Finally, the dim of the tent becomes a muted grey of shapes and you can separate one warrior from another. Lillith is closer to the door, on the edge of the others, relegated to the coldest corner because of her age and the fact she only joined the militia so soon before leaving Polis. You feel a fondness for the girl which is usually dimmed by her recalcitrance and excessive ego. Now though, you’re glad she is here among your warriors.

Moving past her, you still can’t see Clarke. Your heart rate speeds up as you look over one bed then another until finally you see her and your heart rate spikes for a whole other reason. You couldn’t find her bed because she is not in it.

Frett. Your warrior is turned away from you, her hair – fair for Trigedakru– spilling behind her. Clarke is wrapped in her arms, them both fitting onto the narrow bed just barely. They’re sleeping soundly, content with one another in sleep. You leave the tent and don’t stop until you’re back in your own and under the furs.

//

You see Clarke only in passing the next morning, but the encounter still leaves you breathless and rushing to your tent. You aren’t hiding from her. Worse than that. You’re hiding from everything that makes you the commander, that makes you choose head over heart. You can’t bear to face it.

Thankfully, Frett is away from camp when you emerge, so you can’t take out your anger on her. As it is, jealousy and frustration continue to boil over in fits of anger and yelling at your warriors. They’re sparring today, you made sure of it, taking a chance to channel your own aggression into some light hand to hand. With your leg giving you a distinct disadvantage, you have no qualms about using underhanded tactics to win.

“The enemy will not show you any leniency for following the rules. You should expect the unexpected!” You doubt your lesson will do much to soothe the bruises your opponents are walking away with. Today, you don’t care.

Later, when Clarke finds you with your warriors you don’t smile. You don’t plan on acknowledging her, but then Octavia appears with a third person behind her, one who shouldn’t be in your camp at all.

“Raven of the sky people.” You greet her with a cautious formality as you walk over with your cane. If any other sky person had arrived, you would likely have abandoned the aid, not wanting them to think you weakened, but you know Raven will not see your injury as any weakness. She has long come to terms with her limitations, developing her own strategies to overcome them with Abby’s aid. She’s stronger for it.

“Yeah sure.” Raven’s watching your warriors with a cautious curiosity and she turns to Octavia with a laugh. “Is this really what you do, O?”

Octavia blushes under Raven’s questioning gaze and you make eye contact with Clarke, forgetting that you were not going to. Clarke is smirking and you wonder what she knows before reminding yourself that today, you don’t care.

Before Octavia can answer, you ask Raven why she’s come. “You are very far from Arcadia.”

“I’m here because I know something. I’m here to see _you_ because no one else would believe me.”

Clarke scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You’re only the best mind at camp. Idiots are still running that camp.”

“What do you know?” Octavia asks, moving to stand beside you.

Raven eyes you, Clarke, then Octavia in turn, raising a single eyebrow at your behaviour before brushing off her own questions with a visible shrug. If she showed any surprise at Clarke’s presence here when she arrived, you can’t see it now. “The Ice Nation is on the move. They’re heading for Polis.”

You feel the foolish urge to take Octavia’s hand. This news should not surprise you, let alone shake you to your core. _It’s because I was talking about Costia_ , you decide. Clarke is looking at you with a compassion that irritates you. It’s irrational you know, but that doesn’t stop you glaring at her.

“How could you know that?” You snap.

Raven holds up a radio device. It’s different from the ones you've seen before – the antenna rigged up with layers of wires and strange unfamiliar additions.

“I’m paying closer attention.”

She presses a button on the side and twists a dial so the low hiss becomes a more audible crackle.

“I don’t understand,” you say. Clarke has moved closer and you take an involuntary step backwards. Everyone notices. No one says anything.

“Just listen,” Raven tells you, holding the radio closer to you.

After a few more seconds of crackle, you hear it. A beeping. Repetitive, deliberate, and with a distinctive pattern of beeps mixed with longer tones.

“Morse code,” Raven says with a triumphant smile.

You don’t understand, but both Clarke and Octavia are looking at Raven like she discovered the means to send them back to the stars.

“You’re brilliant,” Octavia says. “But, what are they saying? How much time do we have?”

“Two weeks.”

“How many of them are there?” Clarke adds to the questions. “Are they armed with mountain weapons too?”

“I don’t know yet. I can’t be sure.”

You’ve heard enough for now, and suddenly you feel too tired to deal with any of this. Your leg is aching and the bruises coming up on your jaw from sparring need attention.

“Take this to Indra immediately. Octavia show her the way? And tell Indra I'll be leaving in the morning.” It’s an order this time and Octavia jumps to comply.

She nods and walks away slow enough for Raven to follow.

Clarke looks at you like she’s waiting for an instruction as well, or at least waiting to be included in whatever it is you’re planning. Spite, though, holds you back from even thinking about her as the asset she is.

“Clarke,” you say, not looking her in the eye. “I’m sure there are warriors somewhere in need of attention.” You stalk off then, toward your tent, willing her to leave you be. Of course, she doesn’t follow your implicit instruction. She probably never will.

She follows you into your tent. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“My warriors trained hard today, you should—”

“No,” Clarke interrupts you. “You don’t get to pretend nothing’s wrong. What happened? I thought you…” she hesitates. “I thought we were okay.”

You shrug, not trusting your voice.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m glad for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If you have _her_ then you don’t need me.” The words come out before you can stop them. 

Wide-eyed, it takes Clarke a moment to understand. Finally, she breaks the moment with a humourless laugh, looking to the sky as if for patience. “Frett.” She looks at you without a question.

You don’t nod, you don’t need to. She can see it – the seething jealousy in your eyes.

“No, Lexa. You don’t get to do that. You’re doing the exact same fucking thing with Octavia as I am with Frett. You told me there’s nothing between you. You _both_ told me so, and I believed you.” She’s angry, but her words are slow and even. Only the crease between her brows, the firm hold of her fists at her sides expose her feeling. “Was that a lie? Is that why you think what I’m doing with Frett is anything more than it is. Is that why you think you have any right to be mad at me? You think I’m fucking her?”

You open your mouth to declare a definitive yes, then you realise the truth and your jaw snaps shut with a painful click. Clarke is right. Of course she is. You’re hurt and you’re jealous. For nothing.

“No, that isn’t a lie,” you finally say and feel your cheeks flush pink. You bite your lip, willing your skin to stop giving away your weakness so clearly.

Clarke scoffs. “You promise that you don’t have feelings for Octavia, that you aren’t fucking her, but you assume I’m doing those things with Frett?”

You take a deep breath, balling your fists against your own chagrin. “I was wrong.”

“Damn right, you’re fucking wrong.” She’s angry and pacing. Angry with you, and as her hand comes up to cover her eyes, you wonder if she is angry with herself as well. “Wasn’t I—” she cuts off to look up at you. “Didn’t Octavia tell you?”

You don’t know what she means.

“My message?” She adds hoping that you’ll just understand

Oh. You remember. _Not yet,_ and a soft kiss on the edge of your lips. A message from Clarke – carried to you on Octavia’s lips.

“I – I remember now.”

She looks at you, doubtful.

You look down at your hands, your whole body filling with rolling horrible guilt. “I do, Clarke. And, I am sorry. So sorry. I was wrong.” You look up

“Say it again.” Her words are a demand, not a request.

You are helpless against her. Standing straight, you look her in the eyes. “I am sorry. I was wrong,” you say.

“Damn right you were.” There’s a hint of a satisfied smirk hidden at the corner of her mouth and you feel relief flood through you.

You try to keep your expression sincerely apologetic but she must see the shift in you and her glare redoubles before melting away for an indulgent, half contained smile.

“Fucking asshole.” She can’t keep down her laugh this time. “Wrong, stupid, human, asshole.”

You don’t say anything. You're not sure what she means calling you human. Does she mean flawed? You know she knew that. Maybe she had forgotten? Either way, you congratulate yourself on your efforts when Clarke shakes her head at you, at herself too.

“Look, Leksa.” She hesitates, and a complexity of emotions cross her features again. “I need you to… to leave me be for a few days.”

Oh, for the power to read her mind, to understand her thoughts and intentions. Being away from her is the last thing you want, but you’ll do it. “Of course. If that’s what you need.”

“It is.” She doesn’t move to hug you or touch you in any way, but you can almost feel her unfulfilled intention, and for today, that has to be enough as she walks away.

You try not to think about the way she looked at you on that afternoon. You try not to think of the hate and fear you saw in her eyes when you’d finished her tattoo – finished your story about a little girl in love.

//

 

That night, you wake to darkness, disoriented and reaching for your knife. A low gravelly laugh lets you relax, to let the knife fall. It’s Clarke, sitting on the edge of your bed again.

There’s a click, a spark of light and then a flame comes to life in Clarke’s hand. She extends the flame to your candles and when three of them are alight, she lets her hand flame extinguish.

Your heart is beating fast. “A good trick,” you say of her flames. You don’t know what to say otherwise.

Clarke holds up a small plastic cylinder. “Raven found a stockpile of lighters. Thought I’d liberate one from her stash.”

“Clarke, I—”

Clarke holds up a hand. She doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say. Turbulent emotions flow through her eyes. You can’t read all of them, they flit by so fast. One emotion keeps coming back. Hate. Hate and fear cloud all other emotions until she is looking at you, face close, her gaze piercing, and you are lamenting the return of your knife under your pillow.

Finally, Clarke breaths out a gust of air. You can smell the alcohol on her breath. “Give me a reason to hate you,” she says.

You don’t understand, don’t even know where to start with a statement like that. A reason to hate you? You thought she had ample reason to hate you.

“Give me a reason and make me happy,” she continues. “Because any hate will be better than this.” Her hand thumps over her chest. “Better than the…” She swallows against the next word. “Love that’s getting…” She pauses again. “Hate _must_ be better than this stupid useless emotion you’re forcing me to endure.”

You gasp your understanding. A few weeks ago, she’d wanted nothing except to be rid of the inconvenient condition of living. Love and pain have been so entwined for her, she can’t bear the thought of facing love again. Oh, you think you understand now.

“No one can force someone else to love them,” you defend weakly.  
  
Clarke gives you that glare and continues in her strange mixture of Trigeda and English. “You can’t just look at someone the way that you do and expect them to… I am haunted, Lexa. Do you understand? There are so many monsters in my dreams. You’re one of them. But I wake up and you’re here and you look at me like..?’ She doesn’t know how to explain but you think you know.  
  
“Like you’re everything,” you murmur.  
  
Clarke pushes her hands through her hair, then pulls at the ends in frustration. “You have to understand that when I came here… I had nothing, I wanted nothing. I had nothing to lose. So. Give me a reason to hate you. And make me happy.”  
  
“Star Child.” You sigh in understanding. You had lost Costia in love. You feel that fear in loving Clarke as well. But you’ve had longer to come to terms with your loving her. You have already experienced the pain of losing her once. When she disappeared, you loved her – in as much as you could love someone you’d known for so short a time.

The strange Skai Prisa crashed into your broken crumbling walls and lifted out your heart to cradle in her hands. She saw you as no one else could, took such joy in pulling at all your threads until she unravelled you, understood you as no one else had. When you thought yourself to be untouchable Clarke came along and proved how human you really are. You still know love is weakness. But you have to be strong enough to bear that weakness.  
  
“There is no crime in loving someone,” you say. You’re not sure what you want to tell her really. You don’t want her to feel so much fear. Not for this.  
  
Clarke laughs. “What about Finn? Costia? Lincoln, Wells, Maya, Raven? If love isn’t a crime then why are so many people being punished for it?”  
  
She seems to want a real answer, but you don’t know why and you have to tell her that.  
  
She gestures between you. “So who of us will be punished first, do you think? Is the pain of loving the person who betrayed you punishment enough?”  
  
You feel an anger you’ve not felt in months bubble up in your chest. “As much a punishment as loving an enemy!’ You snap. The defeat in her words irritates you. “As much punishment as loving an enemy above all the lives you’re sworn to protect?”

You can’t help but wonder if maybe you were punished for loving Clarke. 

No. you don’t believe in that kind of world.

“The universe doesn’t care enough to punish us. There is no scorecard, Clarke. We live. We die. And the world goes on without us. Regardless of who we are or who we love. The universe never cares enough to punish you for feelings you have no control over.”  
  
“You’re calling me arrogant?”  
  
“Yes. And selfish.”  
  
After a long intense pause, she laughs again and this time, there is real humour in her voice as she flops back beside you, against your pillows. “You are so…” She smiles at you then, real and full. “I really think I could love you.”

Your heart reaches an unmatched crescendo. You’ve dreamed of this moment. Now, though, you don’t know what to say. You look around for some answer, for some signal of what to do, but when your gaze finally comes back to her it’s too late.

  
Clarke is relaxed beside you, one leg still slung over the edge of your bed, one arm over her head. She is fast asleep. That fortuitous beam of moonlight is finally bright over her hair.

You let out a ragged breath and will your heartbeat to slow as you lay down beside her. "Goodnight, my love."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who even knows anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are just lovely. I hope you know that. I know the fandom has been a rocky ride these last couple days so I hope you're taking care of yourselves and each other. I'm around for a [chat](http://dancetyd.tumblr.com/) if you're feeling shaky. Yeah? yeah. 
> 
> Enjoy, my loves.

_The war you fight is underneath the water, getting deeper._  
  
_The wall is busting open._

 

You wake up with blonde hair in your mouth, the feel of Clarke’s hip under your hand. Even breathing in tangles of hair, you enjoy waking this way, with the light of morning filtered through the tent’s canvas and forest sounds drifting in. Leaning back, you push her hair away from your face, stretching until your spine cracks and you let out a sigh.

Clarke groans as she wakes. “Fuck, why does my head hurt so much?”

It’s then that your sleep fogged mind clears and you remember Clarke coming to you last night. You remember, ‘ _Give me a reason to hate you,’_ and you want to know what happened to her. The thought has been idle at the back of your thoughts for weeks, and now it’s clear in your consciousness as you look at her. _What happened to you, Clarke?_

You don’t know what to say to her. It’s become commonplace in the last few weeks, this waking up together. Usually, Octavia is with you, but sometimes she’s gone on patrol and it’s just you and Clarke. You pull your hands from her body remembering, ‘ _There are so many monsters in my dreams and you’re one of them.’_

When she finally turns over and squints at you through bleary, pained eyes you can’t help the smile that overwhelms you and fills your chest with light. Clarke is so… You don’t know what you would do if she walked away from you now. You know she could – you have tried not to get too comfortable or used to her being here, but then she looks at you as she does now and you have to wonder… Are you wasting what little time you do have by pushing her away?

“Where’s Octavia?” Clarke turns to face you and rubs at her eyes, obviously trying to piece together last night.

“You came here on your own.”

“Why.”

Her words echo through your head. ‘ _Is the pain of loving the person who betrayed you punishment enough?’_ You remember your own surprising anger and, ‘ _As much a punishment as loving the enemy.’_

“You were upset with me.” You leave your left hand resting on her hip and she brings your right up under her cheek. “I imagine Raven brought some Arcadia liquor with her,” you suggest.

Clarke frowns, then her eyes soften in that faraway look of remembering, her brow furrowed. “Raven brought a few bottles with her. To trade,” she remembers.

The drink has been popular among your people, though you don’t understand why, since it is almost guaranteed to leave a person’s head aching after a night of poor decisions.

“We were talking about the Ark mostly.” Clarke’s hesitant, remembering bits and pieces. “And then about landing on the ground. We were counting the deaths we were responsible for.” She scoffs a bitter laugh. “Raven wanted to claim the dropship. And then there was Tondisi.” She meets your eyes when she says, “Octavia still hurts.”

You freeze and she presses a kiss to your palm absentmindedly. You can’t relax, because you can see where this is going. The drop ship, Tondisi, the Mountain. All the reasons Clarke feels she should be punished. The deaths you share responsibility for.

Eventually, you see the shift in her eyes. “Raven is so angry. Angry with you still,” she says.

You can’t hope her words indicate that she’s forgiven you. You know she hasn’t. You know whatever happened to her in the past year, she certainly hasn’t forgiven herself.

Clarke shakes her head. “She’s always been too perceptive.” Her chagrin is palpable. “She suspects. Something, between… us.”

She pauses again and you can almost see the pieces fall into place for her. She lets your hand out from under her cheek and you draw a little away from her. You don’t want to crowd her or cause her to be uncomfortable. No matter how much you want to just hold her. Or for her to hold you as if _you_ were something precious for her to keep. A hopeless wish as she moves to distance herself now.

You sit up and cross your legs underneath you to give her space, to let her breathe through whatever is happening in her head. She said many things last night and you don’t know if she’ll remember all of them, if she’ll remember the motivations for saying any of it. One last phrase is echoing in your mind – followed you through your dreams. _I really think I could love you._

 _Could,_ you think bitterly again and take a deep breath, let out in a disappointed breath. Clarke has arrived at the same point you have in remembering, you can see it in the way her shoulders hunch when she sits up, and the way she worries over the scars on her wrists – the rope burns that will take many years yet to fade

“What happened to you?” Your words slip out of your control as they only ever do around her.

She follows your eyes to her own wrists and immediately tucks her hands under her thighs.

//

Clarke watches you dress, as you pull off your shirt to exchange it for another. She doesn’t take her eyes off you and you wish you could know what she was thinking. You wish you were brave enough to ask. Instead, you dress in silence and Clarke watches. For all that she is clearly hungover, she seems emotionally well today, as if last night was a catharsis for her, a release she’s not been able to experience for a while. Between her tattoo, the drinking and the heated words she shared with you – or, inflicted upon you – last night, she is feeling lighter, maybe free from some of her demons.

With her watching, you know you need to apologise. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me anything about—”

“It’s okay. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to ask.” She sighs and the tension between you breaks. “Are we okay? Are you okay?” she asks.

This might be the first time she’s asked you that outright. And, you honestly don’t know. You’ve both been torn to pieces and put yourselves together again so many times, maybe neither of you are capable of being whole anymore.

Looking into her eyes, you know that today is a day for honesty. “I feel like maybe with you, I could be.”

Deciding to take a risk, you hold out your hand to her. She’s still dressed from last night so for her, leaving bed is as simple as taking your hand and rising to her feet. You wind your fingers with hers and, as if you’re still in Polis, free from the watchful eyes of your warriors, you push through the doorway, out into the sunlight and straight into the one person you shouldn’t run into.

“Raven!” Clarke's voice is much higher than you're used to, surprised to see her friend there. Although with the way Raven glares at you both, _friend_ might be the wrong word.

“The fuck, Clarke?”

Clarke lets go of your hand slowly, not wanting to look guilty, although glancing at her you know she does feel that way. “Did you know about this, O?” Raven turns to Octavia close behind her.

Octavia looks excessively guilty too and you hate seeing that expression. None of you have done anything worse than care for one another. You resent Raven for making these two women feel like that. Raven sees Octavia’s guilt as easily as you do and she glares. “You mean you're a part of this?” She gestures with disgust. “Whatever the fuck this is?”

“Raven, it’s not like that.”

“Not like what? Like the mighty _Wanheda_ is fucking your commander and maybe you are too?’ She laughs – a harsh bark of sound. “I hope you know that’s tantamount to suicide. Not many lovers alive between these two. Plenty of bodies left behind.” She beats a fist against her harnessed leg to emphasise every hateful word. “Dead or maimed.”

You can’t stand this, the way Raven looks at you all. The way Octavia and Clarke look to the ground, ashamed of their actions. You want to destroy Raven for making them feel such things, for making Clarke feel all the worse. She already blames herself, she needs no encouragement from spiteful sky people.

Raven stares at each of you in turn before her gaze finally lands on Clarke. “You should have stayed gone, Clarke.”

Octavia steps in before you can bring your thoughts together. “Rae. That's enough!”

Raven glares at Octavia who has tears in her eyes, who looks as hurt and torn as you have seen her. You imagine, that’s how you look at Clarke most days, especially the days Clarke can’t stand to be near you. Raven looks haunted, hurt and scared. Scared of what, you can’t be sure. Of Octavia? Of Clarke?

“What happens next time we’re at war, huh? You think she’ll choose us,” Raven spits, pointing an accusing finger at you.

“Raven,” Octavia takes a tentative step forward.

Your argument is drawing the attention of warriors milling around, but you send them off with a glare. None of the three women with you even seem to notice. Clarke grabs at your hand again and you give it a squeeze, glad when Clarke meets your gaze. You wish you could take Octavia’s hand just the same, but she’s closest to Raven now, pleading with the girl to understand.

“We’re all grounders now,” she says.

“You may be.” Raven crosses her arms, angry tears in her eyes.

“Arcadia is allied with the twelve clans.” Raven scoffs, but Octavia doesn’t let her say anything, continuing with, “You’ve got to trust me, okay.” Octavia is pleading with Raven now to trust her. In between her words she’s also making Raven a promise. Tentatively, Octavia reaches for her hand, tentatively asking Raven to please, please trust her. “You don’t have to be scared.”

Raven’s voice is caught. There’s no more angry words and her eyes soften as she looks at Octavia. There’s still fear, so much fear, but the bitter hate is fading. “Who said I was scared.” Raven’s laugh falls flat with the anxiety still clear in her voice.

Octavia’s head drops to one side, a hesitant smile pulling at her lips.

Finally Raven rolls her eyes and lets Octavia take her hand.

Octavia gives her a small smile. “There. It’s not so hard to not be a bitch, Rae.”

Raven rolls her eyes again. “For the record, you’re all gross.”

She points at all three of you, leaving you utterly perplexed. You don’t understand what’s happening or what is so _‘gross’_ about you since you’ve all bathed regularly, but Clarke is smiling now, so you can't be worried.

“For the record,” Octavia adds with a hint of teasing in her voice. “No one here is fucking anyone else.”

Raven looks into Octavia’s eyes. Whatever she’s looking for, she must find it because she nods. “Fine,” she says, but points at you and Clarke. “You two are still gross idiots though. I stand by that.”

//

You meet with Indra while Clarke and Octavia prepare supplies for Raven’s return journey home. Raven already gave Indra everything she knows and a promise to come to Polis if the Ice Nation start communicating in their strange morse code again. 

 

Indra indicates pieces representing the Ice Nation army on your map. “They have been quiet for three days now, commander. Whatever they’re planning, Queen Nia is keeping her people on their own side of the border.”

“She knows better than to provoke me. The other clans won’t tolerate an attack on Polis either.”

“Not a direct one.” Indra’s voice holds the hint of suspicion you know well.

“You fear an indirect attack?” She’s been thinking over something for days now, but hasn’t been sure enough to speak.

“I am suspicious, commander.”

“You usually are.” You’re teasing and Indra frowns. She rarely appreciates you being flippant, certainly not when talking about potential war. You sit down, rubbing at your aching thigh. “Tell me.”

“These bandits. I’ve never seen so many of them active before. And in a time of such individual prosperity and peace. It seems strange.”

You nod your understanding. “We are at peace, yet there are bands of men walking my roads carrying weapons they do not know how to wield.”

“Perhaps they are being armed by someone else,” Indra concludes for you.

You can see where she’s going with this line of thought. If Queen Nia was on the verge of breaking your alliance, she would want you distracted, away from Polis. “But, why now?” You ask your thought aloud.

Indra doesn’t want to answer, looks away from you instead.

“Speak,” you command, not liking the nervous way Indra avoids your eyes.

“She will have her spies in Polis.”  
  
“I am aware.” Spies delivered their knowledge of Costia and what she meant to you straight to the Ice Queen. You know very well of her spies in Polis.

“She will know that you eschew the tower in favor of your home, and the fields.”

“As many commanders have done before me.”

Indra tilts her head in acknowledgement. “She will know Wanheda lives, and that you have not yet taken her power.” Indra looks you directly in the eye this time. She isn’t accusing you of anything. She is warning you.

“The Ice Queen wants Clarke’s power?”

Indra doesn’t need to reply. You both know that’s exactly what she wants, especially if her spies have let her know how powerful Clarke has become. Not just the wielder of impossible technologies anymore, she’s a warrior in her own right.

You sigh, “I shall have to return to Polis,” feeling the weight of those words like a physical burden. You know that this time you could be returning to a war council, to the delicate machinations of ambassadors and peace talks.

“If war is upon us, you will be expected to kill Wanheda, take her power.” Indra says this matter of factly. She knows you cannot, but she also knows you need to hear it. 

Still, anger hot and painful boils up inside you. “I will not allow Nia to take us into a civil war.”

“If she attacks...”

“If she attacks, Wanheda will be our ally!” The words pour out fast and furious.

Indra’s words are soft, calm in comparison. “Have you asked her that, Commander?” She says your title as a reminder.

You will not kill Indra for mentioning the thought aloud, as you might be tempted to do to someone in that domain of the Commander. Within the tower there is no mercy, no leniency, no Leksa. It’s then you realise. You do not know what Clarke will do if war is upon you. Will she stay? Will the sky people, now prosperous traders with the twelve clans, stand with you or simply fortify their own borders – perhaps even stand with the Ice Nation instead? You feel a tight band of frustration encase both temples and rub the bridge of your nose against the building headache.

“I will have to ask her,” you admit.

“Then I suggest you do so sooner rather than later.”

//

Raven leaves for Arcadia that afternoon so when you finally get back to your tent, your bed is already occupied. Octavia and Clarke are wrapped together with Clarke snoring softly into Octavia’s hair. It’s sweet to see them like this. Like a fairytale compared to the war you were planning with Indra.

They wake up as you walk in, both accustomed to sleeping light, but they don’t need to be fully awake.You set aside your cane and pull away your armour quickly and quietly. Once dressed for sleep you move to climb in behind Clarke.

“No,” she murmurs. “Other side.”

You hum a question. Clarke is always the one in the middle when all three of you sleep in the same bed. That’s how things work.

“She 's a sad day,” Clarke grumbles in sleepy tones. “Jus' go.” She doesn’t even open her eyes.

Octavia does though. And Clarke is right. Sad eyes watch you move around the bed until you are behind her. You slip in quickly, the air crisp enough to bring a chill. Octavia’s back is warm and you tuck in behind her, keeping your cold feet away from hers.

“Why sad?” You ask because that’s the relationship you have with Octavia now. You care. You ask after her hurts.

Clarke answers for her. “Raven is…” She hesitates, glancing to Octavia as if for permission. “Raven is unavailable,” she says simply and you understand.

There’s nothing much you can say because you understand. You tuck in closer to Octavia, wrap your arm around her waist, press a kiss against her shoulder and hold her close. 

//

 

Clarke and Octavia are busy the next morning with packing up Clarke’s herb stores and medical supplies while you are busy talking over potential difficulties in the return journey with Indra. It’s frustrating, being away from them – especially from Clarke. Eventually though, there’s nothing left for any of you to do except leave.

 

With the weight of your militia behind you, and the sun gaining height overhead, you leave your campsite, your temporary home. Octavia, Clarke and Indra all walk along with you and you’re glad of their company. Clarke and Octavia talk quietly over the details Raven had shared with them of the politics back in Arcadia and of Octavia’s brother Bellamy. You don’t join in with their chatter and neither does Indra as you both scan the trees around you out of habit.

The trees have become familiar and comforting, and you know you will miss the woods, . You will miss the solitude, the simplicity of your life here. Just as much as you miss the farms when caught up in the role of Commander.

Octavia meets your eyes and shares a commiserating smile.

Clarke sees the look. “What?” she asks curiously. She’s been doing that more often these last few days, asking your thoughts.

“I will miss the woods,” you admit and Octavia nods her agreement.

“No trees to get stuck in?”

“Exactly.” You sigh in the same way as Octavia does causing you both to smile and Clarke to laugh. It is a beautiful sound.

 

After a few minutes of silence, Octavia pulls Clarke away to show her the herbs she’s found before in some nearby grove. As they leave, Clarke and Octavia glance back, both making sure to acknowledge you. Octavia smiles easy and friendly, happy to nudge Clarke’s elbow and guide the way ahead. Clarke… her smile is shy, less easy, but no less warm, no less welcome. You feel your heart lift and expand in your chest.

Indra, walking beside you makes a sound suspiciously like a laugh and when you look, she doesn’t turn away fast enough and you see the way her eyes turn skyward.

“Indra, have you ever loved?” The question comes out before you can think better of it and you look away, making a show of watching where you walk, though your injured leg is healing well and you're having no trouble with the path underfoot.

“Of course.” Her answer is simple. Direct.

You should stop this line of questioning. It’s invasive, possibly bordering on disrespectful. This isn’t idle curiosity though. You care about her, and you feel she cares for you, and for Octavia as well, even if you don’t know or understand the depth of their relationship. “There is someone you love now?”

The look she gives you makes it clear she won’t be answering that question. “Is there something you wish to discuss, Commander?”

“How many Commanders have you served?”

“Enough.” That was her answer last time too. You understand her to mean _too many._

“Can I—?”

Indra lets out a sigh. It’s as much a signal as anything that she’s open to talk if you need to. And you do need to.

“You would not be the first to ask my advice, Commander.” Her expression almost makes you laugh. The disbelief that anyone would dare ask _her_ for counsel on such silly matters. “Your own First did as much when she was a pup.”

“My own First… Anya?”

Indra nods and looks at you closely. “You would ask her these things if she were here, I think.”

Foolish tears well in your eyes and you swallow past the lump in your throat. “Yes, I suppose I would.”

“Then, I will have to do.” She’s kind then, so kind. Not just battle worn and stern but soft, beautiful and as young as you think you’ve ever seen her.

“Clarke is afraid to love,” you admit.

“She’s told you this?”

“She said that she will be punished for loving.”

“And that’s why she rejects you?”

Colour heats your cheeks and you think you have reached your threshold even before Indra this time.

“I think she is healing.”

“And what do you think Clarke needs?”

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly.

“I think Commander, that your sky princess needs hope. And you have never lacked that.” She gives you a rare smile then.

You fight back a fresh swell of tears, aware of the army surrounding you. “Thank you.”

You would say more, but then there’s the sound of running feet, of underbrush crushed by indelicate steps all around you.

There's a cry.

“Azgeda!” Indra shouts and your heart leaps into your throat as your people scatter.

Your militia is elite. The best of every kind of combat. Children could ambush you with better success than the Azgeda. You don’t hear any Trikru sword drawn as every one of your warriors all break for the trees, some climbing to disappear amongst the branches, some sprinting away through the underbrush. You choose the ground, looking around for Clarke and Octavia as bemused shouts in the Ice Nation tongue follow behind you

You can’t waste any time, but you don’t have to slow a bit as Clarke appears close behind you. Maybe that’s why you chose this path, knowing you would meet Clarke along the way. You can see Indra sprinting away off to your left with Octavia a dark blur close behind her.

There's Azgeda on your tail, but only a few and you push harder. Clarke runs like Trikru and glancing back, you grin at her. She meets your smile not faltering for a second in the thrill of the chase, of running away from everything. You take the most difficult paths, the uphill and uneven ground until it's just you and Clarke.

The Ice Nation warriors didn’t stand a chance. You run for the joy of it now. No one to follow, no one to care who you are. Heda, Wanheda, Leksa, Clarke none of it matters. You are your own people.

A kilometer or more since you lost the last Azgeda, you swing left along a rocky ridge to make sure they won't be able to follow. You start to slow, adrenalin fading, the wound in your thigh throbbing with every step, and Clarke matches your pace. You’re on the edge of the territory you grew up in now. You know these woods. You slow and then stop, breathing heavily.

Clarke stops with you, her head cocked sideways to ask your intention.

You grin in response, thrilled to be running with her, to have Clarke there with you. You've dreamt of this. Had never really hoped that this could be a reality. In answer to her silent question, you mean to gesture your direction, to walk away and for Clarke to follow you. But then Clarke is looking at you, really looking, and smiling in the sweet way you've longed to see. A smile of pure enjoyment, not tainted by death or pain. Just Clarke, enjoying her time in this world.

You find your feet bringing you closer to her. Trees surround you on all sides and you feel alone in the world – just you and the sounds of wild, perfect life. Clarke watches you, her breaths slowing as yours are. Both recovering. You would congratulate her on her improved stamina if you were in a teasing mood – you could flirt and tease her if you wanted for a second to break the tension between you, this rising unspoken _something_.

In the past, Clarke has walked away, avoided the situation where you might look at her as you do now. She doesn't walk away though, she meets your gaze and then matches your steps, meeting you halfway. Here in the midst of a lost lonely forest you come together until you are both _right there_. Clarke reaches out for you and some foolish impulse has you reaching for her so that you clasp each other’s arm in greeting. It is like you're welcoming her back after her year and some months away from you. She has finally returned and _skies_ how you've missed her.

“Ice nation,” Clarke says without letting go of your hand. “We should get back to Polis.”

“We should,” you agree breathlessly.

“Soon,” she says and then smiles because she knows, you both know what this moment is. _Soon, not yet, not now._ Except the moment _is_ now, because you were attacked, because you don’t know what you will be coming back to in Polis. Because your people need you. They need the commander, they need the Commander of Death. Before you return though, you are just Leksa, she is just Clarke, and this is your moment, your chance, your _hope_.

She looks at you as if she would devour you whole. You imagine what it would feel like to have her warm body naked against yours and think she's imagining the same. You feel the way she looks at you like a physical touch. Her gaze reminding you forcefully of the commander spirit so strong in your heart, you feel your strength and your desire cording through your body. She's beautiful and you're terrified but exhilarated, she holds your gaze and you wonder if she can see what you're feeling, if she is experiencing it too.

A beat, a breath passes between you and then Clarke is moving forward. She lets go of your arm and replaces her hand on your neck, pulls you forward and then she’s kissing you, full and real and with a softness in her lips. She wants this and skies you’ve wanted this too. She kisses you long and soft then pulls back to meet your eyes. You find, your hand is against her neck, thumb stroking over the soft fuzz behind her ear. She’s so beautiful, with light filtering down, gentle and green around you. She’s beautiful, soft and warm.

It’s barely a moment and then Clarke pulls you in, demands more of you as she moves closer and backs you over uneven ground and into the trunk of a tree. The bark is as hard against your back as she is soft, pressed full bodied against you. Her lips work over yours and her tongue slip past them, a teasing touch to match her hands slipping down over your hips then up under your shirt to feel your bare skin. You groan and she swallows the sound, shifting her knee to separate yours and slip a thigh between your legs.

It’s just right and you push against her, tugging at her hips and encouraging her shirt up so you can feel more of her, so you can look at her body and really see. She follows your prompt and pulls her shirt up and over her head, letting it fall on the ground beside you. She’s so incredible you lose your breath and the rhythm of your heart stutters before returning double time, your hands wandering over her hips, her belly and up over her breasts.

As she kisses you again, you thumb over one nipple and her movements get frantic. You test her again and she presses her thigh into you, pushing a pulse up your spine, a clench of pleasure between your legs. You want to taste more of her skin and kiss across her jaw and down her neck, letting your hands wander over her, as hers skate over your stomach to the buckle on your belt.

And fuck… Something changes and her hands are moving fast, too fast and too impersonal. She’s running away from the heat of your attention. Not far enough to disappear, just enough to hold that distance between you like a shield. Something inside you wants not to care. Something inside you wants to let go. You can't do that though so you slow your own pace down, pull back and tuck your fingers under her chin to gain her attention away from your belt – to lift her eyes to yours.

“Slow down.”

Clarke swallows. Her gaze flicks down to her hands, paused in action against your belt. “No.” She works the belt loose and off your hips and goes next for the button on you pants.

“Clarke.” You let your hands fall to her hips.

“Please,” she says to your shoulder, her hands finally stilling. She's pleading with you to let her do this, for you to do this with her, to help her forget all her fears in this moment.

“Slow down, please?”

“Not now.” She's stopped trying to undress you and meets your gaze. “Not yet,” she promises again, and you wonder for what must be the hundredth time when _not yet_ will be _now_. Still, you want her as well. You want her and you have _hope_ for her and the progress she’s made. She is herself again, or at least so very nearly there. She’s nearly here, barely holding herself back from you.

  
You want her to touch you, to have you in that way, and you have waited so long for her. Honestly the feel of your own hands has grown tiresome, you want to feel something new, and skies, you want to feel _her_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My oh my, this seems like I'm coming to an end, but I'm kind of not.

_In like a dull knife_  
_pulls out all the stops_  
_I fall out like_  
_time running out_

 

So close to relinquishing control, to letting Clarke do as she wishes, you remember that you can't. Through a test of will, you grip her hips, lean in and kiss her firmly on the cheek.

Clarke groans, knowing what that means and collapses against you, her hand slipping around your waist until she’s hugging you. With your shirt ridden up, and Clarke's shirt gone altogether, the skin against skin is a peculiar hot teasing comfort for you both.

“I hate you,” Clarke grumbles, a smile against your shoulder. Her voice is light and sweet.

“No you don't,” you say then laugh, happy tears pricking your eyes, a peculiar unfamiliar joy filling your chest at knowing that Clarke really doesn't hate you. You can't imagine that the hate and pain is altogether gone; on some bad days, it might still emerge to burn you, but right now, here is Clarke – a friend with her arms tight around you.

Clarke must feel something change in the way you're holding her because she leans back. The tears you've barely held back, fall as she looks at you and she kisses you again, lightly on the lips, then your cheeks, kissing away your tears as if it's the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

“You're driving me crazy,” she says lightly in English. She uses her own language so rarely now, it's almost novel.

“I believe, you started it,” you insist in Trigeda.

She laughs as she leans into you again, her thigh still between yours, her breath against your ear. “And I would have finished it.”

Grinding in again, she kisses your neck and your hands slip from her lower back to her ass of their own accord. She grunts, a sound too erotic for your sanity and kisses your neck lower and more insistent, pulls your shirt aside and sucks on the skin underneath, playing over the flesh with tongue and teeth.

It's your turn to grunt in surprised pleasure and when Clarke is finished with you, she returns her lips to brush against your ear. “Another time,” she says with a smile in her voice and steps away.

The mark she's left on you must be dark, and her eyes are bright with humour as she holds back the collar on your shirt.

“Bad?” You thumb over the bruise, wincing at a dull ache.

Clarke gives a devilish smirk. “Dark enough.”

“I owe you one.” You’re aiming for light teasing, but your words are still heavy with wanting.

At Clarke's shiver, you tilt your head, a smirk pulling at your own lips now. She just smacks your shoulder at the look.

“It's cold, idiot.”

She's right of course. Running so far has kept you warm enough to shed your coats without thinking, for Clarke to take off her shirt. Now with just strips of cloth over her breasts, there are bumps rising up over her shivering skin.

“Goose bumps,” you mumble as you trace over the raised skin of her arm. She doesn’t understand the words so you try to translate. “You look like a bird without feathers.”

“Oh, that’s attractive.”

You bend to pick up her shirt and give it to her, rub at her arms and hug her close once it's back on. She accepts your touch for a few more seconds before you pull away.

“A beautiful little bird,” you say thinking of her watchful wild gaze as much as her reaction to the cold.

“Little.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m barely shorter than you.” She’s fastening her coat and you watch her as you pull your own coat around you, sword and cane between your shoulders.

Finally, you give her one last hug, laughing, “Come on Little Bird. We need to get back to Polis.” Taking a step around her, you nearly collapse, gasping out from the pain radiating up your thigh.

“Are you okay?” Clarke is next to you in a second, hands supporting you. She moves to retrieve your cane from your back then freezes. “Do you hear that?”

You hold your ragged breath and try to listen past your hammering heart. It takes another moment before you can hear it. Heavy footsteps. Maybe Azgeda, or…

“Can you run?” Clarke whispers close to your ear and the change of her intent is quick enough to leave you dizzy. She takes your silence as a _no_ and draws your sword for you, pulling her machete from her belt. “Then we fight.”

She passes you the sword as rushed footfalls get louder, becoming a violent crashing through the undergrowth. Not azgeda.

“Reapers,” Clarke gasps and the fear in her voice is echoed in your own heart. Most have been rounded up – saved or killed in the process of healing. Only the most savage have managed to somehow survive their withdrawals and the wilds. Survived, but not with their minds intact. They are truly monstrous now.

The gasping growls echo through the trees and you try to take up your fighting stance without putting too much weight on your bad leg. You spent all your adrenaline in the run from Azgeda. Now, you’ve barely the energy to stand.

“Clarke.” You don’t know what to ask her, but Clarke can see how weak you are.

She nods. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stands with her feet apart and twirls her blade in a practised overhand.

For you, fighting with a blade is about precision, passion and grace. Swordplay is about balance, as much as power. Your movements are a dance. Clarke, placing her body between yours and the sound of running feet, stands like she’s ready to fight with teeth fists and elbows. She leans on her haunches like a child, like an animal.

When the first man appears, adrenaline is pouring through your veins again. Blood rushing, breath rasping your throat. Clarke meets the first reaper, pushes away the short blade of his sword and strikes his temple with the butt of her machete. He howls. Sweat and filth churn the air as a second reaper barrels through the trees. You meet his blade as Clarke turns, swings and slashes at her opponent's chest.

Neither reaper falls and you're pressed back to back with Clarke for one two three strikes before you're both pushing away. You lose track of her as your reaper swings for your head. You drop and sink your blade through his ribs with a wet scrape of blade against bone. Another reaper appears over his body.

He pushes you onto your back, falls with gnashing teeth. Clawed hands at your throat. Blade flat against his chest, both your hands can’t hold back his blood reek mouth, muscles in your arms straining. The reaper thrashes, heavy body pushing you into the dirt. His teeth snap so close, spit and grime fleck your cheek. He growls and grunts.

With your own feral growl and a great having effort, you push against him. The last ounce of strength left in your body sends him stumbling backwards. It’s still not enough to stop him and he lunges again. You cry out from your place on the ground, sword up, knowing that it’s not enough. You will be felled by an animal that looks like a man.

“No you fucking don’t!” Clarke is in front of you, her machete halting the reaper an inch from her face. Through gritted teeth she fights the pressure of his blade. “Fuck… off!” She drops away from his knife, twists around on one knee and, with the reaper bearing down on her back, plunges the blade deep into his heart.

She’s crouched right in front of you so you see the look in her eye as his blood drains over her. The determination, the ferocious fire burning there. This is the Destroyer, Wanheda in all her glory. Clarke breathes deep and steady in the midst of blood and pain. She is accustomed to this violence.

“I’m sorry,” you say. The words come out before you can stop them. You didn’t mean to turn her into this, but now isn’t the time for foolish regrets.

Another two men come screaming into view. The first drops with your knife in his throat, blood gurgling out of his mouth as you stand. The second faces the Commander of Death and never stood a chance. You were wrong when you thought her childish. Her ferocity is wild, but it’s the wild of a hawk swooping down on her prey. Untethered, precise, merciless.

The last man finally appears crashing through the underbrush and you stagger to meet him, your own blood streaming from the torn-open wound in your thigh. His eyes are almost as wild as Clarke’s as you kick out his knees and bring him to the ground. You meet Clarke’s gaze as she brings her own man to the ground. You hold knives to their throats and in that second, both of you are the Commander of Death.

You make a promise to the trees and the stars and all those that pledge their loyalty to you as The Commander – these last remnants of The Mountain will no longer haunt your villages.

“Blood will have blood.”

“Blood will have blood.”

Clarke joins you in the cry as together, you slide your blades across the last Reapers’ throats.

When the bodies fall, you want to fall with them, to collapse to the ground and sleep for an age. The last of your reserves are gone, like so much life drained from the bodies at your feet. You think of what Clarke told you at the base of a waterfall: pain brings clarity. You think she might be right when she looks at you as she does now. She’s present again, right here with you. Beautiful and dangerous.

“Fuck,” she sighs, and you grin along with her, not matter the anxiety her capacity for careless violence provokes in you. You’ve had your fair share of violence and inflicted it just the same. Who are you to judge her for it?

“Fuck,” you agree, and she laughs.

She crosses the distance between you, seeing you trembling on your feet, but within arms reach she’s the one who stalls.

Her hand wavers halfway to your cheek.

You reach out for her, she sways then falls into your arms. Your strength gone, you can only soften her fall, crumpling with her to the ground.

“Clarke?” Her eyes are barely open and you call to her again, frantically checking for an injury, any sign of blood that might be her own. Nothing. You check through her hair for any bump and find nothing. She’s losing consciousness and you’ve no idea why. Checking her pulse, her heart is still beating steadily, just a little slow considering what you’ve just done. You sit in the midst of reaper bodies with her half awake in your arms.

Her eyes are barely open as she looks at you. “Lex?”

“Yeah, Little Bird. I’m here.” Your words quiver with shocked nerves.

“Oh, that’s attractive,” she murmurs, and then her eyes are closed again. Panic surges through you

“Hey, no, look at me. Keep your eyes open. Clarke, don't. You have to keep your eyes open.”

There's so many long seconds where you stare at her closed eyes begging her to waken again but she doesn't. You squeeze her hand and press it against your cheek to feel her warmth.

“Please Clarke. I can't do this. Please. Not again.” Her eyes open and you let out a sob kissing her palm and wrist and fingers. “Fuck,” you curse again because what else is there for you to do?  
  
She blinks up at you. “Lexa.” Her lips tremble into a wan smile. “Love. Don’t be so dramatic” Her eyes flutter closed and then she’s gone. You were worried about pain and capture for her, worried about the ice nation capturing the commander of death. Now she’s here in your arms, without a scratch, just fallen away in an unconscious faint that no shaking can wake her from.  


//

Indra finds you like that, surrounded by bodies, Clarke unconscious in your arms. She lifts Clarke from you as if she hardly weighs a thing and drapes her gently over your horse.

“Commander?” She needs to know what you want her to do.

“Go,” you tell her. “Return her to Polis quickly. Protect her.”

“Commander, I—”

“Go!” You grip the hilt of your sword. “That’s an order!”

Indra does as you tell her.

//

Octavia finds you soon after you’ve laid out the reapers in a row and cleaned their faces of dirt and blood. It took too long with nothing but your own two hands.

“Clarke?” You ask after her first.

Octavia understands. “The healer said she’ll be fine. Low blood sugar or something." She mumbles the last, "Or you know, Ptsd panic?” 

You don’t really understand any of her words, but you heard the most important part. _Clarke will be fine._ You turn back to gathering branches to stretcher the dead men home.

“Commander,” Octavia starts then sighs. “Leksa.” You still ignore her until she finds the words that cause you to move. “Clarke will wake soon. We should be there.”

More warriors follow Octavia and you assign them to the task of carrying the last reapers to Polis.

“Give them full rights.” 

Octavia shares her horse with you, her arms wrapped around you until Polis’ city edges.

//

With the threat of Azgeda moving on Polis, you should go straight to your tower, to your ambassadors to talk over what Raven has found and how the commander should respond. Instead, you go home to Clarke.

Her eyes are closed when you arrive in her room, but the healer waiting at her bedside assures you that she is only sleeping. She checks Clarke’s pulse one more time then hands you the damp cloth she’d been pressing to Clarke’s forehead.

“She woke for a short while then went back to sleep. She’s brave, like you.” The woman’s emphasis is strange. You finally look at the healer properly, and recognise her. You wrack your brain for her name. It fails to return and you’re not surprised.

“Reyen,” she reminds you.

“Yes, of course.” That night at the bar, you had been playing the game – Clarke with one of the girls from Ren’s farm and you with this healer. You shift uncomfortably, taking the cloth from her for something to do.

“She has a slight temperature, commander. That should take care of things until morning.”

“Thank you.” You feel like you should apologise to her. She never really had a chance to hold your attention, and you’re not sure she knew that at the time.

Reyen smiles sadly. “If I’d known who I was competing against” She pauses to look over at Clarke again. “The Sky Princess.” Reyen laughs lightly “I still would have drank with you.”

You breathe out a sigh. “I should have been more careful with how I treated you.” You knew you were in love with Clarke, but had not held any hope for her returning your feelings. You’re still not sure if you believe it’s possible.

“Don’t worry about it.” She presses her hand against your arm in a familiar way that makes you regret the power that cuts you off from your own people, especially now. Reyen must see it in your eyes but she doesn’t say anything more, just packs away her things and leaves, nodding to Octavia, who hesitates in the doorway.

“Don’t worry about what?” she asks.

“Just my inappropriate behaviour,” you admit.

“Ah.” Her eyes follows Reyen down the hallway. “Repercussions of your casual encounters catching up with you?”

“Are you saying I should be ashamed?”

She sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’m saying, Commander.”

“So formal.”

She shrugs. “Maybe I need a little formality.” She nods at Clarke. “Seeing her like this… It scares me. She usually seems so...”

“Unbreakable,” you finish for her. “At least, physically. What’s wrong with her do you think?”

“That’s what’s so hard. Reyen says, she should be fine. Just dehydration, high body temperature. It’s probably all just exhaustion.” She doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“Has she not been sleeping?” You would have thought you knew the answer to that, since you’ve been with her so many nights lately.

“She has nightmares.”

“We all have nightmares.” You sit down to apply the cloth to Clarke’s forehead. You’ll stay all night if need be.

//

Clarke wakes with the dawn, her hand moving in your own draws your attention from the window and you stand to bring her water. She tries to sit up.

“Hey, no, stay down,” you tell her.

“What happened?” Her voice is gravelly with sleep and she accepts the water gratefully.

“You fell unconscious.”

“I passed out?” She asks for clarity in english, as confused as you feel.

You nod, not sure what else to say.

“The reapers?”

“Dead.”

“Azgeda?”

“I…” You don’t know what is happening and she sees it in your eyes.

“Commander.” The reprimand is clear in her voice and it almost makes you smile.

“My ambassadors will need time to talk themselves through their concerns.”

Clarke just glares at you. “ _You_ need time to plan.” She’s right, of course she is. “Have you even slept?”

“No, I just—”

“Get out of here, Leksa. Go to your own bed and stay there.”

“Indra will need—”

“Indra and all of your people will need you rested and ready to lead.” She’s so mad, she is glaring at you. “I can’t believe you.”

You can only smile at her snarl. “Of course, Little Bird.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

Her glare sends you out of the room – the way she squeezes your hand sends you out with a smile.

//

When you wake, the sun is climbing high in the sky and the tower is waiting for you. Its flame is alight so you can no longer ignore its presence. Your home and the farms you retreated to are so distanced from that ancient relic, you had let its very existence slip from your notice.

Your house is quiet. The staff must be working quietly in the kitchen, Reyen will not be back to check on Clarke for some time, while outside will be the rush and bustle of your city, the noise of crowds, and further afield, the talk of war. Here, this peace feels like a fragile precious thing poised to slip from your grasp. You long to just go to Clarke, to hold her hand until she is fully rested and well again. After dressing in your Commander attire, you move to check on her one last time.

Octavia is with her, flicking through a book while Clarke continues to sleep.

“How is she?”

Octavia stands from the edge of Clarke’s bed. “Just more sleeping.”

You nod, adjusting the buckles on your armour before settling your hands nervously to hold the edges of your coat.

“I should go,” she says and moves toward the door.

“Come to the tower with me.” You’re not sure if you’re asking as her commander or not.

Either way, she nods. “I will go let Indra know.”

She leaves and you are alone with Clarke again. She is breathing steadily and you let yourself linger, taking the moment alone to feel and soak up her presence.

You think she’s asleep, but she proves you wrong by smiling a little. “You have duties, Commander.” Her voice is teasing enough to make you smile.

“I always do.”

“And yet…” she lets her words trail away because you both know the end of her statement.

“And yet I am here with you,” you finish anyway.

Clarke’s eyes open and her smile widens when she sees your own. “Your weakness is showing.” You’ve heard the words before, but never like this. She’s not accusing you of anything. She’s not demanding anything of you. Not for some time. You remember the first time she asked you to kill her, when she revealed exactly why she had come to Polis. She asked you to take her burdens. Instead, in the weeks she has been with you, Clarke has killed another four men with her own blade. You will both need to go under the smith’s brand again. _Together this time,_ you think sadly.

“I’m sorry,” you say, unable to keep the thoughts inside. She closes her eyes, but the words are already there between you, the ones you hadn’t ever meant to say. “I never meant to turn you into this.”

You’re not sorry for putting your people first, but you have now seen truly what that has cost her. You’ve seen what you had previously refused to. The warrior – what she would call the monster – inside of her, that you helped to create. You are sorry she had to face it, that she had to face it alone.

When her eyes open. Her gaze is cold again. Not the hard iciness that she arrived in Polis with, but still cold enough. “You say this now?” She tries to sit up and this time you help her. She pushes your hands away. “I am what was born in the mountain. After you left.”

“I could not have done differently,” you say because it’s the stark truth that you can’t deny even by omission. “You could not have done differently if offered the same deal. Not then.”

“No,” she laughs bitterly. “Not then. And now? Could you betray your friends so easily, for your people.”

Somehow the question shocks you, makes you stop. “My friends? Clarke, your people _are_ my people.”

She scoffs, but you need her to understand. You mean this in no uncertain terms. Your decision was made the day she arrived back in your life. You knew then what you should have known all along.

When your knees hits the floor at her bedside it’s like your body moved of its own accord. She sits up further in the bed now, pushing at the blankets as if annoyed by their weight. She turns and stands as if to better handle whatever you might be laying at her feet.

You know what you need to say, had practiced the words after she left. In the months after the mountain, you swore to yourself you would say the words to her as soon as you got the chance. You broke that promise to yourself, but you have the chance to fulfil it now. She stands above you, the wild sky princess, and you know only one truth in your heart.

“I swear fealty to you, Clarke of the Sky People. I will treat your needs as my own, now and always. Your people are my people.” You hold her gaze so her flicker of doubt is clear to you. You continue in english. “Your people are our people. Your needs, are my needs. I promise you.”

A shake in your breath holds back any further words, but they aren’t needed. It’s there in Clarke’s eyes when she holds out her hand. She believes you – trusts you, and it’s with a thundering heart that you take her hand and let her guide you to standing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So six months just flies by huh? I'm sorry. If you feel any better, the next chapter is almost written. In fact, I basically split this from a longer chapter to make two chapter... Bring the love/hate of to Tumblr okay... Dancetyd.

_(Even when I was whispering_   
_You hold on, the water was slippery_   
_You listen, the weather was answering_   
_I let go, I wanna get into it)_   


\---

Clarke pulls you with both hands to your feet.

“Lexa, I…” Clarke doesn't finish as her hand comes up to cover her mouth and all colour drains from her face. 

You spin away from her and and pick up the empty water vessel left by the bed. Clarke immediately loses her stomach into the jug, hands shaking around the rim. You do your best to hold back her hair, and rub a hand between her shoulders. Eventually she shakes you off to lay back, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. 

After tipping out the vessel and setting it back on Clarke's bedside you suggest, “I'll call for Reyen to come back.”

“No.” She shakes her head, settling back under her covers. “I feel better already. I think it's passing.” She does look better. “You should go,” she insists with a shiver.

You lift a hand to feel the temperature in her cheeks, but she rolls her eyes. “It is cold in here, Leksa. Just some banked fires will warm me.”

“We have no fires,” you point out. 

“Cold blooded commanders?” she jests and you smile at her tone. 

“We have pipes running water past braziers and under the floors.” If you have explained this before, you both have forgotten. The thought is… comforting, nice to think you have spent so much time together. Before Clarke can ask after the look in your eyes, you clear your throat. “I will arrange for extra wood to be brought so the room can be warmer.” You expect her to object. It’s possible she’s not asked for anything so substantial from you before, something so… long term. 

“Thank you.” So simple, her reply is that you barely parse it. “You should go,” she says again, before anything can be made of the moment. 

She's right of course, but you take her hand and kiss her knuckles delicately where they're bruised from your skirmish with the Reapers. She lets you.

“I'll return tonight,” you say eventually. 

“Better yet, I should come with you,” Clarke grumbles. “I’m already sick of this bed,” she says and sits up with enough purpose that you hold a hand against her shoulder.

“You need more rest.” You fight against the indulgent smile that threatens to break through at her pout. 

“But, I feel fine already,” she insists. 

You chuckle because, while she does look a little better, her eyelids are drooping heavily. “Doctors orders,” you remind her and she finally stops fighting you to fall back against her pillows. 

As Clarke starts to drift into sleep, you take the chance to push her hair away from her forehead. She shifts and sighs, and you feel the familiar flip in your chest, like a coin turning over. Your heart is too full of Clarke to remain still. Your heart is so full of Clarke… that you need to regain focus.

With Queen Nia’s army pressing into your borders and with war as close as a hot breath against your neck, this road you're walking is a dangerous one. Still, you know you will take it, no matter how hard or treacherous it may be. The coalition will need to be defended – for your sake, for Clarke's Sky People, for all your people – the coalition held together by force if necessary. 

Clarke’s breath gradually deepens and you know you need to leave, get to the tower and see to your ambassadors. Watching as Clarke drifts to sleep, you can’t help but think of another pressing issue. You need to be sure the Ice Queen cannot get her hands on the Commander of Death, on Wanheda’s power. You had thought Clarke safe here in your time of peace. Now, with Raven revealing new movement of Nia’s forces, you can’t help the dreadful images coming to your mind. Clarke, her throat slit, with the Ice Queen standing over her. 

You can’t let that happen. 

The wound in your thigh, that will no doubt knit into a new jagged scar after tearing its edges yet again, throbs in time with your fear. If you aren't strong enough…

You had thought only to linger at Clarke’s side for a short while, but the shadows are getting long when there is movement behind you and Octavia coughs awkwardly. After a long pause where you remain looking at Clarke, Octavia crosses to the bed and presses the back of her hand to Clarke’s forehead before turning to look at you. She has obviously washed herself clean, but also reapplied her warpaint, so her blue eyes shine fiercely.

“Do you trust me?” 

The question surprises you. Coming back to Polis Octavia must have been thinking about this – what ever this thing between you three is. A dangerous prospect for the precarious nature of your relationship. You're so far past whatever your relationship was before, you can't even name what that was anymore. 

“I want to trust you,” is your eventual admission. “I think I could.” The sad truth is, you shouldn't trust anyone. 

Octavia looks down to your hand where it’s resting on the hilt of a dagger in your belt. “I know how hard that is for you.”

Her words pull at a memory like caught thread. Clarke said that to you once a long time ago. Clarke understood this after only a few weeks of knowing you. The memory makes you look at Clarke again, undoubtedly showing your devotion. Feeling Octavia’s gaze, you don’t hesitate to lean down and kiss Clarke on the cheek. You brush the hair from her forehead gently, not wanting to wake her. 

“We should go.”  Octavia says softly and you’re glad to have her comforting presence close by. It is a selfish want, but you know these next few weeks, possibly months will grant you little opportunity for comfort of any kind.

You want to ask if she trusts you as well. Instead, suddenly remembering a long ago overheard conversation you ask, “What is a _gay disaster_?”

Octavia fights back her smile for a moment before breaking into a surprised laugh. “I don’t really know how to explain.”

“You can explain on our way to the tower.”

She nods, you kiss Clarke’s fingers one last time and move away from the bed to gather your walking cane.

In the foyer of your home your thoughts are crowded again with worry about the Ice Queen and her plans, about the coalition and the delicate strings of politics and intimidation holding it together. You’re leaning heavily into your cane knowing that you won’t be able to take it with you outside. No one can know how much time you have remaining in your recovery. With the door to the street in sight, a wave of worry rushes through you — a sudden fear that you won't ever be coming home again. 

Octavia senses your hesitation and halts on the verge of opening the door. She turns back to you, where you're caught on the precipice of internal upheaval.

A terrible feeling builds in your chest, your heart picks up speed and panic threatens to overwhelm you.  Nausea in your belly, a tightness holds your chest and constricts your breathing. You suddenly know that you can't protect Clarke or Octavia, Indra, Reyen, your people or the coalition, you can't stop whatever is coming. You can't, you can't. The bustling city on the other side of that door will burn and everyone will die.

On the edge of your awareness, Octavia steps away from the closed door, she pulls at your hand and draws you in until you're pressed against her, there's an arm wrapped around your waist, her other hand holding the back of your head. You fall into the embrace with a shaky breath against Octavia’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay, Leksa. Everything is okay.” 

You want to scream at her that nothing is okay, but you hold onto the words, try to bring them into yourself. 

It takes several minutes and Octavia persuading you to match your breathing to hers before you can return to your propper senses. She wipes the tears you’d not realised had fallen.

“It’s okay,” she says again.

You rub at your own cheeks feeling them redden. “You can tell no one of this.”

The high tower – the Commander's rooms with their impossibly high ceilings is no place for weakness. This can go no further, not even by rumour. Warpaint on your cheeks, armour wrapped around your body, is all your people – your enemies can see of you. 

You have to become again that myth they know of in times of war. 

Octavia assures you, knowing exactly what you require of her. “You _can_ trust me,” she says and you realise this is a test of your own words. Do you really believe Octavia is someone you can trust? You once let Clarke live after she revealed herself as knowing your weaknesses. Does Octavia receive the same benefit of doubt in a time of imminent war?

Pulling away from her, the tension returns to your body and straightens your spine. The tension that causes others to see you as holding yourself in power above them, as you must. As you must. You look at Octavia, your loyal captain’s second. Your friend. You don’t doubt that in differing circumstances you could very well be lovers, though you share a companionable bond now. 

She’s watching you cautiously, knowing that this moment where she offered you comfort could mean her death. This is the knife’s edge you all have been balancing on, the knife’s edge you have chosen to ignore in your time in the woods. She is too close to you and you can’t be sure the relationship you’ve shared these past weeks can survive the return to Polis, the return to war.

“Yes, I trust you,” you say finally and all the tension drains from Octavia’s body with relief. She saw that moment in your eyes, the one where her life was decided. She knows you could have chosen to kill her. 

“Do you trust me?” You ask the question you had meant to ask before.

Octavia laughs through her answer. “Sure, commander. Let’s call this trust.” 

You’re not sure what she means exactly, but you have an idea. You want to trust her, she wants to trust you, and after this moment where you might have killed her, that trust is in balance. She will not speak to anyone of your weakness when she knows it could get you killed. You will not cut her throat to keep her ever speaking again.

//

The next few days are a blur of meetings and negotiations. The Ice nation delegates assure you that the veritable army amassing on your border is simply performing a training exercise – the kind of work a benevolent monarch offers her soldiers. 

“And the well armed men who attacked my militia in Trikru territory?” You can’t help but snap the question. 

The men who attacked you had scattered into the woods too quickly and the few that had been captured poisoned themselves before they could be properly questioned. Along with these Ice Nation raiders, you have no doubt that Indra’s suppositions are correct; the bandits circling Polis have been armed by the Ice Nation – there’s just no way you can prove that. Not yet. Not until Raven can find some way to prove intention with her gadgets. Not until the Ice Queen slips up and reveals her hand.

Novem, a short broad and balding man, known to recruit children in his spy games, is the one who answers your questions. “I can assure you, that none of those men were Azgeda.” He waves a lazy hand in your direction. “If the commander is unable to keep even her own people in her own lands in peaceful accord, Queen Nia would be happy to offer any number of her soldiers to—”

Titus interrupts. “Queen Nia will keep her warriors on her own lands!” 

You make a mental note to have him kept away from these meetings. He has no business arguing with clan ambassadors on your behalf. He sees the movement of your hand meant to silence him, but looks ready to ignore your direction.

“A _generous_ offer,” You interrupt Titus smoothly. “But unnecessary.” You nod to Ambassador Novem who finally resumes his seat as other ambassadors take the floor.

The meetings continue and you long to sink your hands into dark rich farming earth with the heat of sun on your back. You long to have Clarke beside you.

You get to experience so few short moments of quiet with her; in daylight hours, Clarke has begun moving about for short periods, slipping into the tower and somehow finding your quiet moments alone to check the wound in your thigh.

“It is going to scar mightily,” you say, though with the way Clarke attends to you, with such sensitive care you wonder if she could make the tangled flesh smooth with just her touch. 

At night, when you are too tired to speak any more words, Clarke is the one to gather you up into her arms. Secreted away in the home you think of as yours and Clarke’s together. She holds you tight until you both are asleep. 

//

Each day, it takes far too long with endless delays to cross into the centre of Polis, and there is innevitably a procession of people approaching the tower when you finally reach its shadow. With the commander’s flame alight, many come to speak with you, to ask your advice, share their needs and fears with you. With war upon your doorstep, they should be in their homes, with their families. Instead they come to speak with a girl that you’re no longer sure you can be. 

Today, the pressure to perform for them feels like too much. With your head held high, you stalk past them, keeping you step steady as can be with Octavia keeping your cane discreetly against her back. Your people need never know of your fears and worries. You will be strong for them. You bypass those taking the stairs, nodding at your guards standing before the lift. Octavia follows you past them and into the metal box ready to take you upwards.

“Hold the door!” 

A familiar voice calls out and Raven is hobbling toward you. The person with her makes you draw in a sharp breath.

Abby Griffin follows after Raven with Bellamy close behind. Octavia looks at you and the slight movement of her head indicates she did not know they were coming. 

“Has something changed, Raven of the sky people?” You give Raven a smile you genuinely feel and she returns it tentatively, her eyes flitting back to Clarke’s mother.

You regard Abby and Bellamy coldly, fear swirling in your chest at the thought of Abby being here for Clarke, for she and Bellamy both being here to confront her or drag Clarke to a place she does not wish to go. You send a prayer of hope to the forests that Raven has not told them of Clarke’s presence in Polis. Bellamy has served his people well this past year, grown as a man and a leader under Marcus Kane’s tutelage. But you will not trust him with Clarke. Not yet.

Raven nods her head as she takes your forearm in greeting. “You could say that. I think maybe we should get somewhere more private though.” She indicates the elevator guards with a tilt of her head. 

“I understand.” You give them space as Octavia shares a one armed hug with her brother and then with Abby. It doesn’t escape your notice that Octavia doesn’t hug Raven, though you know she wants to. You may not know the details of what’s happening between them, but you do understand the pain of being so short a distance from the one person you truly want and cannot have.

Smothering a sigh, you nod at the guards to close the gate and soon after you are all travelling in tense silence up the tens of floors to the commander’s floor.

//

When you enter your thrown room, Indra is the only one waiting for you. Mercifully, since Abby follows you in like a whirlwind of anger and frustration. Kept silent by the curious eyes of all the towers’ inhabitants, she now lets loose. “Where are you keeping her? Where is Clarke?” 

Sweeping up the stairs to sit in your throne, you take the moment that Indra and Octavia take to stand by your side to push your anger down to a low simmer. You’ve been through this before, when Clarke first disappeared and Abby came looking for her here. You were equally as worried as Abby at the time and still you had little patience for her demands — now that you know Clarke is safe, that she does not _wish_ to return to her people, you have lost any remaining patience for Abby’s histrionics. 

“Abby of the sky people, I trust you are well.” You aim for a polite aloofness rather than outright rudeness. Which Abby ignores.

“I need to see her.” She’s breathing heavily and shrugs off the tentative hand Raven tries to place on her arm. 

You continue as if she hadn’t said anything. “Raven, I hope your journey was smooth.”

“Lexa!” Abby tries to take a step toward you and finds the point of Indra’s blade pointed at her throat.

“You will address her as _Commander_ or Heda.” Indra’s accent over the english words is harsh with anger and sharp enough to make Abby flinch.

Abby takes a deep breath and visibly reigns herself in, taking the step back needed for Indra to withdraw back to your side. “I am here for my daughter because she sent for me, if you won’t let me see her, then I will assume that you are keeping her against her will and the treaty is no longer in—”

“Enough.” You interrupt with an imperious gesture, a selfish jealousy clawing up your throat. You look to Raven who nods her confirmation. “She sent for you,” you say without question. There’s no stopping the hurt that laces your words. That Clarke chose not to tell you…

“Mom?” As if summoned by her mother’s presence, Clarke is suddenly there. You can’t help but admire her in that moment. How does Clarke so completely slip past your guards? Her newly acquired skill for stealing by unnoticed may well surpass any thief, messenger or spy you know of.

She looks strange in your throne room, too beautiful for the crumbling walls of the tower and your heart sinks at the coldness in her gaze, too reminiscent of the Destroyer who first walked into Polis. She’s not happy that Abby is here, though she’s not surprised to see her either. 

“Clarke…” Abby doesn’t know what to say, you can tell. She sees what so many others see when looking at Clarke and you understand. Her hair still cropped close on one side, the scars visible on her wrists, throat and face, and the haunted steel of her eyes. Abby looks at her and then at you. “What did you do to her?”

Clarke rolls her eyes as hard as you would if you were not in this room, on this chair. 

Years of training keep your expression neutral. “You will find I have done nothing, except offer Clarke a welcoming home.” You can’t help but needle the woman who so challenged Clarke’s leadership and safety on more than one occasion.

Abby returns her gaze to her daughter, hands rising to touch before Clarke flinches away from her hands. “What happened to you? Where have you been?” 

As much as you would like to know the answer to those questions, this is not the time or the place. Titus will no doubt be making the ambassadors aware of your reaching the tower. You need to know why these Skaikru are here. Why Raven and Bellamy have come back to Polis. You catch Clarke’s eye over her mother’s shoulder and she gives you a brief nod of permission. You are free to interrupt this reunion.

“Enough!” Your command is responded to immediately. “If Clarke’s whereabouts are your only reason for attending Polis, then I must ask you to leave my chamber.

Finally, Raven steps forward, pulling that unfamiliar radio from the bag slung over her shoulder, the _morse code_ reciever.

“The ice nation is on the move again,” she says. “There’s been chatter across the line, indicating an entire army is rallying at one point along your border.” She points at you with the radio’s antenna, as if it is your personal boundaries she’s discussing. You suppose it isn’t for a sky person to understand the position of Commander.

“They often do,” is your slow reply. “Queen Nia calls these operations training exercises.” You grit out the words feeling the insult as deeply as ever. “If the army doesn’t cross the border there is nothing that can be done. Not on the basis of communication only you claim to understand.”

“It’s not a claim,” Raven defends indignantly. “And they are crossing the border. Those raides? They are deliberately small. Deliberately testing the border, and definitely Ice Nation. Belive me, I’ve got this right.”

“And I do believe you, however my belief is not enough to act on.”

“You must move to defend yourself now!” Bellamy shouts the order at you as if it is all so simple, as if he knows better than you how to protect the coalition you built.

Indra’s retaliation is halted by a twitch of your hand that Bellamy fails to see and Clarke apparently finds amusing, going by the twitch at the corner of her mouth. Abby is still performing her visual exam of her daughter, but Clarke is listening closely. You find yourself searching for answers in her cool gaze. She understands people in a way you never have. For all your political understanding, you’ve never had her gift for sensing and manipulating others’ intentions. 

You address Bellamy. “I will not declare war on a people that are still our allies.”  
  
He huffs impatiently at your reply. “If you don’t strike first, they will—”

“I will not lead my people into war without provocation!” You’re tense in your chair. You thought Bellamy could one day be a great leader, but if this unprovoked violence is his idea of leadership, you have obviously misjudged him. “I will discuss this with all the clans’ ambassadors and ask the Ice Nation delegation for an explanation.”

You don’t get to add anything else as Titus finally makes his appearance. He bows with the perpetually stern gaze that shows with perfect clarity how disappointed he is that you spent so long away from the tower. Your time among real and loving people, your time with Clarke has taught you not to care about his disapproval. You also know that a delegation of ambassadors will be close behind him. 

“Raven, I thank you for bringing this knowledge and hope you will stay with us here in Polis until the matter is resolved.” You begrudgingly shift your gaze to Abby and Bellamy who are crowding around Clarke defensively as if she could ever need _their_ protection. “And you as well Abby, Bellamy. I will make sure food is brought to you. Octavia will show you to my rooms.” You turn to Octavia to make sure your meaning is clear. “In the _tower_.” 

Octavia nods her understanding and sweeps Bellamy and Abby out of the room with Raven following close behind. The look Clarke gives you before she leaves is difficult to interpret, and as the clan ambassadors are ushered in, all you can do is mull over what it means within your own disquieted thoughts. 

//

It’s the next day that the ambassadors chose to bring up Clarke, to bring up the Commander of Death. 

“Wanheda is a danger to us all.” It is the Ice Nation ambassador, Novem who voices the topic first. 

It’s curious that they insist on calling her that when your people have started volunarily bringing healing herbs for her stores within the Tower’s infirmary. The commander of Death is also known to stave off death, to prolong life with a healing touch. 

He continues. “Who knows _still_ why she is here? The Destroyer singlehandedly brought down The Mountain for the sake of her people, imagine what she could do living within this very capital!” 

Novem goes on, of course, to discuss how extending the ice nation boundaries would protect your lands from the terrible dangers that Wanheda and her sky people represent. You know exactly what this man wants, and it has nothing to do with protecting Polis or the coalition. He keeps talking though, and the others are listening, leaning forward in their chairs and wondering what they could gain from the changes he proposes. 

“What does this coalition truly mean when the Commander allows sky people to settle on Trikru land – when Skaikru’s leader is the Destroyer of Mountains,” another voice demands. “Broadleaf cannot remain comfortably within a coalition with such imbalance.”

You grit your teeth before quieting them all. “Marcus Kane leads the Sky People that are _peacefully_ settled on Trikru territory. Those same Skaikru and Trikru who trade so generously with Broadleaf clan.” 

You silently add Raven’s information to the list of precious Skaikru gifts; you have gone to great lengths to keep Raven’s continued presence in the tower quiet though. She’s kept herself to your map room, going over pages and pages of data about your borders and the lands surrounding Polis. She also showed considerable excitement over some archaic _‘blew prints’_ that so far as you know reveal the details of no known place. Regardless, if Queen Nia knew that Raven was capable of interpreting the “chatter”, then the Ice Nation would undoubtedly go quiet and you would no longer be privy to her plans. 

Glaring at each of your ambassadors in turn, you add, “The people of our twelve clans are united for the first time in a hundred years. Happy and content in peace. You will not tear apart this successful coalition for your own petty gain!” 

These last words send a ripple of soft laughter through the group that you don’t understand. Your control over them is slipping and you don’t know if you can summon the will to reinstate the fear that granted it. 

Novem steps forward once again. “You have been in the fields too long, Heda. The _people_ may love you, but they don't respect or _fear_ you. And this coalition? What threat remains to keep all clans under your control now the mountain has fallen? Maybe Wanheda has clouded your judgement.”

There’s a murmur of aggreement that sets your teeth on edge. 

“Wanheda is on our side.” You try to keep your voice calm in the face of his blatant heracy, his blatant disregrard for the will of his own people. You’re boiling with anger at these men who call themselves representatives of their people. “The skaikru are valuable allies to this coalition.” 

Novem’s scoff is louder than any others. “As we were allied to Skaikru before the mountain?”

And that’s when you understand; somehow the rumour of your betrayal at the mountain has returned, no doubt fueled by Ice Nation agents, and now voiced aloud in your very chambers. This rumour questions your honour and your strength. You know what you have to do, what you should have done days ago when Novem first started speaking out of turn. 

You remember a dark quiet night with Clarke in those first days after she arrived in Polis. You knew that she could be there to kill you and you’d had to admit to yourself that you didn’t care if she did. Because you were tired, tired of politics and war. You were tired of _life_ then. And now? Now you want nothing more than to go home. Home to Clarke, to the peace and love you find with her. 

In your quiet, Indra snarls for Novem to take back his words. “You will _not_ disrespect the Commander!”

“Clarke of Skaikru brings with her only death.” Novem continues to smirk, ready to lay down exactly what he’s been dancing around for days. “Maybe the Commander should respect the danger _Queen Nia_ recognises within the very boundary of Polis. ”

“Queen Nia _is the danger_ to Polis.” Indra starts forward, but you have had enough, halting her with a flick of two fingers in her direction.

“There’s no need to argue,” you say calmly. All eyes turn to you and the power of their regard pushes back your shoulders, bolsters your resolve. You were born for this, after all. You stand with regality stiffening your posture. “Novem, please come. Let us speak.” 

You walk toward the edge of the room. Hundreds of meters above the ground, you can see Polis’ sprawling edges and, beyond them, the fields that Nia and this delegate have chosen to pull you from with their war mongering. Rage burns in your stomach as Novem follows with his chest puffed out. You turn to him, angling your body so that – ignoring whatever protective instincts he may feel – Novem places himself between you and the tower’s edge. 

You say, “I have a message for Queen Nia.”

Novem smirks, but before he can form any reply, you gather your strength and your Commander spirit to kick hard and fast into Novem’s chest. The man cries out, eyes wild as he loses his feet and begins to fall. Hundreds of stories above the ground he is flying out into the open air with nothing to suspend him. Before the pull to earth fully takes hold, you turn coldly away from him. He deserves no more of your attention, and it’s the rest of the ambassadors that you need to worry about now. 

Reentering the room, you see Indra’s approving smirk before scanning the rest of the room to see all your ambassadors finding their seats. They are shaken, afraid and – most importantly – back within your control. 

“Would anyone else care to question my judgement?”

//

When the last ambassador files out, you are still tense. Burning with rage and pain, and the burden of another death. This one, that you cannot truly claim; Novem’s death belongs to Nia and her twisted reach for power. You don’t get the luxury of dwelling on him.

When Titus turns, you know you can’t face another day of this.

“There will be no meetings tomorrow, Titus.”

He objects of course, but you will accept none of his grumbling right now. He bows, resigned and muttering something about preparing a festival day to welcome your return. You don’t care what excuse he uses, whatever it takes to give you just a few hours, a single day to just be Leksa. 

With Clarke in your thoughts, you brush past him, ignoring his bow and walking at random through the tangled halls. Young men and women scurry past you too fast to see their faces. You barely see them. Finally, your search brings Clarke’s voice to you on a light breeze. Following the sound to the end of a darkened hallway within your tower residence, Abby’s voice joins Clarke’s inside. After you knock, there’s a fresh squabble of voices before Clarke calls for you to enter.

Octavia is there, as is Bellamy though both of them are standing unobtrusively, one in each corner facing the door. Bellamy by all accounts has behaved only as guard to Abby, and attempted to guard Clarke in the first few days until she deliberately gave him the slip too many times. Now, while Octavia offers you a gentle smile, Bellamy sends you a glare. Everything is, as always, more complicated than you like.

If Bellamy is unhappy to see you, Abby is outright angry. Somehow she is convinced that everything she finds disagreeable about Clarke’s appearance and attitude has somehow been caused by you. How would Abby feel about the version of Clarke that first arrived in Polis? This Clarke at least has brushed her hair. You braided it for her just this morning with the little blue dragonfly clasp holding it in place. She looks beautiful. Abby would have outright recoiled from the dusty mess Clarke was before. Then again, maybe Abby knows about the tattoo you applied to Clarke’s thigh.

For now, the Doctor must focus on her work instead of her dislike for you as she resumes tying a soft plastic tube tight on clarke’s upper arm and prepares a needle and empty capsules for drawing Clarke’s blood. Abby must have brought the equipment with her from Arcadia since removal of such materials from your infirmary would have required your express permission.

You give Clarke a questioning look and she shakes her head then rolls her eyes indicating that this is all Abby’s idea and she’s just playing along. 

“How were your meetings?” She asks.

Clarke asks the question in Trigeda expressly to make Abby scowl. That is possibly a mistake when the woman is about to stick her with sharp spikes. You meet Octavia’s eyes over her shoulder and share a wry smile when Clarke has to turn away from the needle entering her skin with a wince. Since Clarke started the game, you reply to her question in Trigeda. Octavia is of course a happy witness, suppressing her own laughter. As if you all are now mischievously conspiring against Clarke’s mother.

You tell Octavia and Clarke both about the morning’s meetings instead of your most recent one and find the tightness in your shoulders relaxing with each passing moment in their company. Even Abby’s glaring and Bellamy’s constant shifting in his corner can’t lessen the calming effect Clarke has on you. You smile and Clarke laughs when you talk about the farmer so worried about his daughter coming to Polis to join a group of tumbling performers. The sound of her laughter makes you feel light enough to float up above the ground. Octavia winks, understanding.

When Abby is done, you want to take Clarke home with you, but Clarke has work to do sorting through the fresh herbs in her growing supply in a back room of the infirmary.

“Go home,” she insists, reaching behind her for Octavia. 

The warrior aspect disappears as Octavia scoots forward to take Clarke’s hand and then yours. Both Abby and Bellamy scowl at the interaction between you three, but none of you cares. 

Clarke says, “I’ll be there soon,” and Octavia pulls you forward then out of the room. You stay close to her until you finally reach home.

In the dark calm of bed, you admit what happened with Novem that day. With Octavia’s fingers trailing softly through your hair, you admit that you hated the man in that moment. 

“Anger is powerful,” she assures you. “Anger, pain, hate… if that’s what will get you through this...”

Taking a deep breath as she trails off, you say, “Clarke told me I couldn’t kill everyone who disagrees with me.” You can’t admit how much you fear her judgment. 

You needn’t fear anything as Clarke appears in the doorway, moves to the bed and lays down next to you. “I heard about Novem,” she says, taking your hand up and kissing your knuckles.

“I…” you hesitate longer. “I truly hated him.”

Clarke shares a glance with Octavia, some confirmation you don’t quite grasp. She says, “I understand what needs to happen now. I understand what you have to do, to keep this peace.” 

Her other hand goes over your hip to take Octavia’s hand. You’re held between them now.

Nodding through another shaky breath you lean in to kiss Clarke’s lips, gently and with only the briefest of touches; Clarke meets you easily. 

“The marks?” Octavia asks. She has already gone with Indra to recieve her own.

Clarke understands and nods. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the smith.”

In a tangle of warmth, and what feels like love, you sleep.


End file.
